


Never Change

by hollycomb



Category: South Park
Genre: Closeted Character, Federal Bureau of Investigation, M/M, Murder Mystery, Police, Post-Divorce, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 115,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirteen years after his high school girlfriend's pregnancy upended his life, Stan is still in South Park, working with his partner Bebe as a local cop. They're in the process of investigating a series of possibly connected murders when FBI agent Kyle Broflovski returns to town and informs his old friend Stan that this is <i>his</i> investigation now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my next chapter story! The goal is to make it creepy and scary, but it's also a romance and hopefully more of a mystery than a gore-fest. I didn't check the 'rape/non-con' warning because it's not a major element in the story, but at one point a character discusses a traumatic event from his childhood that was somewhat but not explicitly sexual, so bear that in mind if you try to avoid that sort of thing. 
> 
> I hope you guys will enjoy this - please let me know if you have thoughts or questions along the way!

At two o'clock in the morning on a Friday night, three hours before his next shift, Stan was sleeping deeply and dreaming about Kyle Broflovski. It wasn't rare for him to dream about Kyle, though they had not seen each other or spoken in eleven years, and even in his dreams Stan's access to Kyle was always obscured somehow. In this case, he was in a charming bookstore in the early evening, browsing shelves that were illuminated by a candle-like glow, when he found a six volume biography of Kyle for sale. It was bound in pastel hardbacks and tucked into a box set, modest in length but expensively styled. Stan bought it, not minding that it cost eighty-eight dollars before tax, and was excited to read about what had become of his best friend. His cell phone woke him up before he could open the first book.  
  
It was Bebe, calling from the station.  
  
"You'd better come in," she said. She sounded grave but not devastated, so Stan didn't ask if it was one of his kids, some bad news.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Wayne and his buddies got picked up by the rookie for underage drinking. I haven't called Lola yet."  
  
"He's -- is he okay?"  
  
"He's fine. Not even drunk. A little surly."  
  
Stan's heartbeat had launched into a painful hurtle at the sound of his son's name, but it was okay: it was only drinking, the kid being stupid with his friends; nobody had died. Then again: Wayne was still a baby and this seemed to be happening way too soon. He was still twelve, for fuck's sake, though he would have his thirteenth birthday in less than a week. Stan hadn't gotten him a gift yet. He was lost where Wayne was concerned, recently, and this news had already shoved him further off course.  
  
"You want me to call his mom?" Bebe asked. "Or do you want the honors?"  
  
"I'll, I should -- no, you call her. I'd lose it on her. Where the hell is she while he's doing this? It's two in the morning and he's getting arrested? He's fucking _twelve_."  
  
"Well. He's almost thirteen."  
  
"Not yet. So what? What the fuck!"  
  
"Alright, calm down. I'll call her."  
  
Stan put his uniform on, confident that the shitstorm that was about to hit his life would keep him from returning home to change before the start of his shift. He was confident about little else as he climbed into his squad car, feeling shaky. He couldn't actually blame his ex-wife for this, not entirely. Wayne came from a broken home. This sort of thing happened to children when their parents divorced. Stan had started drinking at ten years old, and though he tried not to do it in front of his kids, not wanting to turn into Randy, he had slipped up once or twice since the divorce. Not drunk, not looking for a fight like his old man at the little league field, but he'd had beer in the fridge on weekends when the kids were over, and one night he lost track and drank four of them over the course of dinner and Netflix. Wayne had noticed this, maybe. Lola didn't drink. Even in high school, at parties, she had never been a drinker. Stan had found that very attractive about her, in the way that he'd tried to turn what he hated about himself into virtues that he laid on her shoulders.  
  
Driving the streets of South Park at two-thirty in the morning was something Stan was very accustomed to, but tonight the stillness of the town felt off, maybe only because of his personal turmoil. It was early October and the late summer heat had been lingering uncomfortably, but the nights were starting to get cold. The streets were empty except for Stan's cruiser and one pickup truck that he passed near the entrance to his old neighborhood. A young couple with twin girls now lived in the house where Stan grew up. Sharon had moved up to Spokane after Randy died, to be near Shelly and her kids. Stan still felt a little bitter, driving by, though he didn't resent his mother for leaving, Shelly for needing her more or Randy for dying relatively young. It was a more of a general bitterness toward things that had been promised to him as a kid, things he had taken for granted. Most of those things had dematerialized as soon as Stan decided he wanted them.  
  
Not that he was unhappy. Life had actually been a lot better since the divorce, fun again, but now Wayne was in jail and Stan was pretty sure it was his fault.  
  
Bebe had Wayne at her desk when he got to the station, and Stan was annoyed to see that she'd bought him a danish from the machine near the old pay phones. Wayne gave Stan the same look he'd been getting pretty much nonstop for the past year: preemptively bored and irritated with hints of a strange new shyness, as if the divorce had transformed Stan into some kind of step-father.  
  
"Is that coffee?" Stan said, indicating the styrofoam cup Wayne was sipping from while he stared up at Stan with that look. "You drink coffee now, too?"  
  
"It was just beer," Wayne said. His voice hadn't really changed yet, but it was getting there, shifting in a subtle way that seemed menacing to Stan. "Paul is the one who wanted to drink them, I didn't even care."  
  
"I shouldn't have given him coffee," Bebe said. "Without, uh. Asking you. Sorry."  
  
"You're not hanging out with Paul anymore," Stan said.  
  
"Yes, I am." Wayne scoffed and then looked sheepish, maybe because Bebe had witnessed his backtalk. He had no problem doling it out to Stan on a one-on-one basis lately.  
  
"What do you want to drink for? You're bored? So what, play a video game, watch a movie, egg cars if you need some excitement. You're too young to be bored enough to drink."  
  
Wayne had no response except to stare angrily into his coffee cup. Bebe sighed and stood up.  
  
"Obviously they're not going to be charged," she said. "The rookie just brought them here so their parents could pick them up. He thought that would scare some sense into all parties." She snorted and smiled a little. "He didn't realize Wayne was yours until he was in the back of the squad car with his buddies. Rookie's face was white when he came in here and told me he'd picked up a Marsh."  
  
"It's not like I'm his chief," Stan said, muttering. "How many others were there?"  
  
"Two other boys. I'm surprised nobody ran."  
  
"That's good." Stan looked at Wayne, who was turning red for some reason. "Hey. Look at me. That's good that you didn't run."  
  
"We didn't think they'd arrest us since you're a cop."  
  
"That's bullshit. You don't get special treatment because of my job. What's wrong with you?"  
  
"Hey, okay," Bebe said when Stan's voice started to raise. He hadn't planned on yelling; he hadn't planned on being here at three AM and seeing his son at the booking table. He hadn't planned on having kids at all, but here he was.  
  
"Sorry," Stan said, to Bebe. "Wayne, how did -- I know your mother doesn't know you were out after midnight. You lied to her? You snuck out?"  
  
"I was spending the night at Paul's. We went out to his backyard, and then Paul wanted to go to the woods so his parents wouldn't hear the cans opening."  
  
"Classy, that's good. Well done, Paul. You're not friends with him anymore, I mean it."  
  
"You can't tell me who I'm friends with."  
  
"Like hell I can't." Stan pressed his lips together when he heard his voice rising again. He tried to imagine what Randy would have done in this situation. Probably not much; Stan was around Wayne's age when Randy started letting him have a beer during tailgates with Jimbo, as long as Sharon wasn't there to catch them. Stan had already been drinking in secret for years and had developed a tolerance that both Randy and Jimbo were impressed by.  
  
"I'll get you some coffee," Bebe said when an uncomfortable silence began to stretch between father and son. Everyone else in the station had steered clear since Stan came in, but he could hear some snickering in the break room. They were probably ripping on the rookie for making such a bush league arrest and picking up Stan's son in the process. Stan didn't hold it against the kid, though if Wayne had gone to bed on the floor of Paul's room with a two-beer buzz and felt like shit in the morning, that might have been preferable to this.  
  
"Dude," Stan said, squatting down to look Wayne in the eye. He was still seated, still staring down into his coffee cup like he wanted to hide in it. Stan took it from him, gently, and set it on Bebe's desk. Wayne looked up at him.  
  
"Maybe we don't tell mom," he said, quietly.  
  
"Ha, yeah, no. Bebe already called her."  
  
"Shit."  
  
"Don't -- hey." Stan put his hand on Wayne's knee; for a moment he'd looked like he would cry. As if Lola's wrath was really something to fear; she was soft on both the kids, the kind of mother that Stan's had been, always wanting to sweep them under her wing. "Don't get mixed up with this shit already," Stan said when Wayne met his eyes. "Drinking is messy. It makes you stupid."  
  
"So how come you do it?"  
  
"When you're older you can handle it better."  
  
"But why?"  
  
"Here's the thing. It's against the law for you to drink alcohol. This is strike one for you. You want to be the kind of kid who gets strikes? Huh?"  
  
Wayne rolled his eyes. Stan had lost him; he'd had him there for a minute, but he was too sleep-deprived and angry to come up with good lies about his reasons for drinking, as if he even knew what they were precisely. He rose and groaned, remembering that dream about Kyle. He felt embarrassed by it, though it wasn't like anybody knew he had dreamed of savoring six books full of Kyle information. It wasn't like he was going to tell Bebe, or Kenny, or anyone.  
  
"It wasn't even my idea," Wayne said again, mumbling. "And Paul was just being stupid. He's not like that. He just thought it would be funny if we got drunk."  
  
That seemed to pierce through Stan's stomach, anxiety flooding his chest. They didn't just want to drink some beer, they wanted to get drunk. It was Paul's idea, apparently, so there was no need to panic, but hearing that word on his son's lips seemed too nightmarish to be real.  
  
"It's not funny," Stan said. "It's dangerous. Your brain is still developing, you can't just pour poison onto it and expect--"  
  
"Did I say I would do it again? No!"  
  
"Well, I can't exactly just take your word on things after tonight, can I?"  
  
Stan regretted saying that instantly, because it felt untrue and Wayne's eyes changed when he heard it, as if Stan had pulled the rug out of from under him and not vice versa. Before Stan could backtrack he heard Lola asking the receptionist where they were. Evan came bounding into the station ahead of her, beaming as if her brother's arrest was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in months. Being that she was an eight-year-old girl who lived in a small town, it probably was. She was wearing a coat and her pair of sweater-looking boots over her pajamas.  
  
"Daddy!" she said, and Stan allowed her to bound into his arms, though he felt like it would hurt Wayne's feelings. Around the same time that Wayne began to look at Stan with disdain, Evan decided he was a kind of celebrity-level perfect person, and she had been complaining about her time spent at Lola's house.  
  
“Hey, pumpkin,” Stan said when she hugged him hard, and he pressed some of her static-filled hair into place, wanting to believe that he still had more than a few years of her uncomplicated adoration ahead.  
  
"What is this?" Lola asked, looking from Stan to Wayne as if they'd been caught drinking together in the woods. "Where are Paul's parents?"  
  
"They took him home already," Wayne said.  
  
"Are you going to press charges against them?" Lola asked, snapping her eyes to Stan's. She looked very tired, and she was hugging her over-sized sweater around herself as if it was a robe. "For letting children have access to alcohol?"  
  
"Nobody's getting charged with anything," Stan said. "The boys snuck beers from the fridge during a sleepover. But I was telling Wayne, I don't want him at Paul's anymore. And Paul's not coming over to our place, either."  
  
"Which place?" Wayne asked, glaring at both of them. "There's two now."  
  
"You're grounded," Lola said. "At dad's house and at mine. For a month."  
  
"I'm not even drunk!"  
  
"Don't shout at your mother," Stan said, pierced again by that word. "That's not the point. You did something illegal. You're at the police station, you rode in the back of a cop car. You should be feeling ashamed and apologizing for waking us all up in the middle of the night, and instead you're giving us attitude."  
  
Wayne turned away from them and glowered angrily at nothing, his hands in fists over his knees. Evan was still plastered to Stan's side, clinging to his arm.  
  
"Is Wayne going in there?" she asked, pointing to the holding cell where a guy who tried to start a fight at Skeeter's during Stan's last shift was still sobering up.  
  
"No," Lola said, pointedly, looking at Stan as if that was what he wanted. "This won't go on his record, will it?"  
  
"Of course not, but it's protocol to bring them here so parents can retrieve them."  
  
"They weren't even at Paul's house?"  
  
"They went into the woods behind the neighborhood. Neighbors complained about kids being loud."  
  
"That's not safe!" Lola said, speaking to Wayne again. "Three boys your age out at night in the woods? Are you insane?"  
  
"What was going to happen?" Wayne muttered. "It's South Park."  
  
"There are plenty of creeps in every town! Ask your father! Why do you think he has a job? Because there's crime here."  
  
Wayne snorted. "Yeah, like. Graffiti on the side of the mall and people not picking up their dogs' poop."  
  
Evan giggled. Stan was taken aback. He'd always assumed that Wayne thought his job was a little impressive, at least compared to his friends' fathers who worked at the CVS Pharmacy or in the lumberyard.  
  
Lola took the kids home after some semi-excruciating begging from Evan to stay with her dad at the station. Her new thing was saying that wanted to be a cop when she grew up, like Stan and Bebe. It made Stan's stomach hurt to think about his daughter in the line of fire, though he was sure she would change her mind about her future career thirty times before she left for college, and then there was the chance that she'd end up hating him and everything he stood for like Wayne, who had once been Stan's best buddy.  
  
"That was rough," Bebe said when they were gone, the sun still not up. "You want to hit the diner before our shift starts?"  
  
"Yeah," Stan said, thinking of greasy bacon, fluffy pancakes, coffee that was slightly more decent than what they had at the station. It all sounded like the cure for his sudden emotional hangover.  
  
The diner was the only South Park business other than Wall-Mart that was open twenty-four hours, seven days a week. It was out by the highway ramp, and mostly empty when Stan and Bebe got there shortly after four AM. They took their usual table and placed their usual orders.  
  
"What the hell do I do now?" Stan asked, though Bebe had no kids and wasn't even married. She still gave good advice, most of the time. She'd been his best friend almost as long as she'd been his partner on the force, seven years.  
  
"I think he'll be okay," Bebe said. "It's upsetting, but it's normal kid stuff."  
  
"He's such a mystery to me all of a sudden. His birthday is in a week and I have no idea what to get him. He asked for cash. Jesus Christ. I'm not giving him cash."  
  
"Why not? Kids love cash."  
  
"What if he uses it to get someone to buy him beer?"  
  
"Oh, god. After tonight I doubt he'll go near beer for another couple of years. He was pretty embarrassed."  
  
"Embarrassed? He seemed brazen to me, and remorseless."  
  
"He's just putting up a front for you."  
  
"For me? I'm his fucking father!"  
  
"Yeah, well, sons like to impress their fathers, right? Look, I don't know. Let's talk about something else until you calm down. How are the Kevins?"  
  
"Ugh," Stan said. Since his divorce and his ensuing, long-delayed embrace of his bisexuality he'd been sleeping with two men who were both named Kevin, though Kevin McCormick was really more of a fuck buddy and Kevin Stoley-Donovan more of a secret affair that was barely worth the trouble. "They're fine. Same as ever."  
  
"Is Clyde back in town?"  
  
"No, he's still on his book tour. I think he's in Portland."  
  
"I can't believe fucking Clyde Donovan is a nationally renowned author."  
  
"It's not like he's writing novels, Bebe. His books are about a talking banana."  
  
"But kids love them! Didn't he win some kind of award?"  
  
"He didn't win, okay, he was just nominated."  
  
"It was a big deal, though, wasn't it? What's it called, the Caldecott Medal or something?"  
  
"I don't know," Stan muttered, though he did, and yes, it was. On the one hand, he hated himself for being the homewrecker who fucked Kevin while Clyde was off being celebrated for the 'authentically childlike wonder' with which he wrote and illustrated the adventures of a talking banana who cried too much, and on the other hand he loved that he was the guy who had infiltrated the seemingly perfect couple. Clyde and Kevin were junior high sweethearts who came out together and were fawned over by the girls for being best friends turned lovers, inseparable soul mates, and adorable hallway hand-holders all through high school. Stan took it all kind of personally, and when Kevin came onto him after a town council meeting last winter, while Clyde was in New York signing banana books, he jumped at the chance to prove to himself that there was no such thing as a real happy ending for boyhood best buddies who fell in love as teenagers.  
  
"Are you freaking out about Wayne?" Bebe asked when Stan sat in silence for a while, staring down at his freshly delivered plate full of food.  
  
"No," Stan said, and he almost blurted something about that dream, the idea of Kyle's life story in six accessible volumes. "I started drinking when I was ten," he said instead, and Bebe laughed.  
  
"Wait," she said, frowning. "Seriously?"  
  
"No - yeah, but. Never mind."  
  
"Stan. Um, wow, well--"  
  
The bell over the diner's front door rang, and Stan turned as if he was very eager to see who was coming in, glad for the excuse to break eye contact with Bebe. It was Kenny, wearing his too-big thrift store overcoat and grinning as he came toward them.  
  
"Five-oh in the joint," he said, crowding into the booth beside Stan. Kenny was sort of enormous, six foot five and broad-chested. "Why's everyone look so grim? Who died?" Kenny rubbed his palms together, either cold or excited about the prospect of a local death. He was a mortician and ran the town's only funeral home.  
  
"Wayne got picked up with his friends for underage drinking," Bebe said, and Stan blushed with gratitude, glad that she was letting that thing he'd said drop. Kenny was a good friend, too, but Stan didn't want to talk about it with him; he didn't even want to talk about it with Bebe, really, but concealing his urge to talk about Kyle had somehow unearthed that other old truth.  
  
"Whoa," Kenny said. "Little man's growing up."  
  
"It's not exactly a sign of maturity," Stan said.  
  
"You know what I mean. Damn, he'll be thirteen soon. And you'll be thirty-one! Is that numerologically significant somehow?"  
  
"Nothing is numerologically significant," Bebe said.  
  
"Sure it is, like the golden birthday, remember? We all thought Wayne was going to be born when Stan turned nineteen on the nineteenth? Shame he came early, he probably would have been immortal or something if that due date was right."  
  
"I screwed this whole thing up," Stan said, not wanting to think about his nineteenth birthday and the fact that it was thirteen years ago. "I should have just stayed with Lola until the kids left for college."  
  
"No," Bebe said. "That's worse. That's what my parents did. It still sucks for everyone, believe me."  
  
"Yeah, man, you've got to do you," Kenny said. "I'm really proud of your progress in that area, too. Though you could probably find some better characters to explore yourself with than my loser brother and Clyde's asshole husband."  
  
"We were just talking about the Kevins," Bebe said, smiling. She loved this subject. She was less fond of the subject of her own love life, which sometimes involved Kenny.  
  
"Clyde hasn't caught Kevin sending you incriminating dick pics yet?" Kenny asked, grinning.  
  
"I don't want to talk about the Kevins." Stan did kind of wish he had someone to tell that he wasn't actually into Kevin Stoley-Donovan's dick, he was into Kevin McCormick's. The married Kevin, meanwhile, possessed the ass of interest.  
  
"Alright, fine," Kenny said. "I've actually got some local gossip that's better than Stan's fabulous new gay love life."  
  
"Ooh," Bebe said, hugging her coffee cup in her palms. "Tell us."  
  
"Yeah, please," Stan said, ready to talk about anything other than himself.  
  
"Rumor has it that the illustrious Leopold Stotch may return to town soon. His mom isn't doing so well."  
  
"She's sick?" Bebe said.  
  
"Off her meds again, I hear. Back to accusing the local businesses of being fronts for gay brothels."  
  
"That's sad," Stan said. Linda Stotch had lost her grip on reality when Butters left for college and her husband subsequently left for Atlanta, where his long-term online boyfriend lived. Half the reason Stan wasn't out to anybody but his best friends and the men he was sleeping with was that he didn't want to be compared to Stephen Stotch, the current town title-holder for man who left his family to fuck dudes. It wasn't like Lola was on the verge of a nervous breakdown or had even been very sad to see him go, from a romantic standpoint, but her name even fucking _sounded_ like Linda's, which was just Stan's luck.  
  
"Cartman will be happy if Butters comes back to town," Bebe said, and Kenny nodded sagely.  
  
Stan wondered what people would say if Kyle came back to town. _Stan Marsh will sure be happy about that!_ It was irrelevant, anyway; Kyle's parents had moved back to New York after Ike finished high school.  
  
"You really think Cartman still cares about Butters?" Stan asked.  
  
"Hard to imagine Cartman actually caring about anything," Kenny said. "But he did love to mount dat ass back in the day."  
  
"Are you sure?" Stan asked. "I mean, it's not like he's out." Cartman owned a Cadillac dealership and still lived with his mother, though he could afford his own place. In his demented view it was more convenient to stay with Liane, who still cooked his meals and laundered his clothes.  
  
"Cartman has always been like Butters," Kenny said. "Sorta like an open bisexual secret."  
  
"Then what am I?" Stan asked. "Do people call me an open bisexual secret?"  
  
"Nah," Kenny said. "People will be surprised when you come out."  
  
"God," Stan moaned. "Wayne most of all."  
  
"Don't worry about that right now," Bebe said, and Stan saw her shoot Kenny a look. "You're allowed to take your time with telling your kids. It's a big deal."  
  
Stan was in a funk by the time their shift started, and it didn't help that their first call, shortly after sunrise, was that Linda Stotch was demanding to be allowed into the Catholic church, which was currently being decorated for a wedding that would take place at noon. They apprehended the offending scorned woman without much difficulty or the need for restraints, and escorted Linda home to the tune of her ranting about the fact that the church's allowance of private bookings was evidence of homosexual corruption from the Vatican on down.  
  
"What kind of asshole gets married at noon on a Saturday?" Stan grumbled as they backed out of Linda's driveway.  
  
"Only the biggest assholes in town," Bebe said, smiling over at Stan.  
  
Stan smiled back at her, glad that she understood the joke. He and Lola had been married at noon on a Saturday, thirteen years ago, in that very church. The noon booking was half the price of an evening ceremony. It had been the most terrifyingly surreal day of Stan's life, which had generally not been short on terrifyingly surreal days. He'd thrown up three times. Kyle also threw up, but only once, and he claimed it was entirely due to the fact that he had to watch Stan vomit, as if he hadn't seen a lot of that already, over the years.  
  
"That thing you said earlier," Bebe said when they were parked near Deer Hill Road, clocking cars. "About drinking? Since you were ten?"  
  
"I keep thinking about Kyle today," Stan blurted, because, as it turned out, he wanted to talk about that other admission even less. Bebe raised her eyebrows when he peeked at her.  
  
"Kyle Broflovski?"  
  
"No, Bebe, Kyle Schwartz."  
  
"Who's Kyle Schwartz?"  
  
"The other -- I was being sarcastic, okay. Yes, Broflovski, that one."  
  
"Okay," she said, slowly, as if preparing to diffuse a bomb. "In what context?"  
  
"You and Kenny, talking about Butters coming back here. People still thinking Cartman would be happy about that."  
  
"Kyle is coming back to South Park?" Bebe was openly incredulous.  
  
"Of course not, why would he?"  
  
Kyle worked for the FBI and lived a fabulous life of professional and personal success in Washington D.C., according to his Facebook, which Stan had last checked a year ago, shortly before he asked Bebe to block the site on his work and personal computers. The only reason he hadn't unblocked it was that he didn't know how to do so, and he wasn't quite self-destructive enough to actually research and find out.  
  
Bebe sighed and put her hand on Stan's thigh.  
  
"You've had a long day," she said, and Stan was relieved when their radio crackled on. It was a call from the station, asking them to check out the Evergreen Apartments out on Ridgewood. Building 5, Apt 512. According to the dispatcher, a neighbor had heard a woman scream and no one responded when he knocked on the door. Bebe put the siren on and drove like a maniac on the way there. She and Stan had a mutual tendency to respond ferociously to the suggestion of a woman in distress.  
  
The days were already shortening, and it was starting to get dark when they pulled into the apartment building's lot. Bebe had shut the siren off one street ago, not wanting to alert the bad guys if they were still on the scene. Stan was hoping it was just a television left on, or a roach that had startled a woman who then didn't want to confront her neighbor's humiliating concern.  
  
"Something's off," he said as they climbed to the second floor, where apartment 512 was located, Stan's hope that this was a harmless misunderstand plummeting. The air felt light in a dangerous way, and there was an unsettling quiet to the whole place, which had outdoor breezeways littered with pine straw.  
  
"Yeah," Bebe said, her hand going to her gun. "I'll knock, you hang back out of sight."  
  
"Yep."  
  
Stan pressed his back to the wall beside the neighbor's curtained window and drew his gun while Bebe knocked.  
  
"Park County Police Department," she shouted when there was no answer. "We received a call regarding this unit. Ma'am? Hello? May we come in?"  
  
"Is it open?" Stan asked when there was no answer. Bebe sighed.  
  
"We should call the station--"  
  
"Bebe, what if he's still in there?" Stan asked, the bad feeling he'd had since they pulled up intensifying. Bebe winced a little and reached for the door knob. The worst case they'd dealt with so far was a few years back, a woman who'd been assaulted. Stan still thought about it a lot. He'd been driving when they got the call; he could have driven faster.  
  
"Ma'am?" Bebe said when the door opened, unlocked. "Hello?" She pushed the door open with her elbow. "Furniture's knocked over," she said as she hurried inside with her gun drawn, Stan following in the same fashion.  
  
What happened next seemed so dreamlike that Stan didn't feel the impact right away, though he knew that over the next few days, weeks, months, years, it would gradually press in past his skin and bones and never leave him. He had seen a dead body before, a homeless man who froze to death behind Wall-Mart on Christmas Eve, but this body was not like that body. This one was cut open in three places, bloody, white and stiff and posed on the couch as if it had been waiting for them.  
  
"We've got a female homicide vic, looks to be mid-twenties, multiple stab wounds." Bebe was speaking into her radio, her voice shaking. Stan was still near the doorway, pinned there by the dead woman, unable to move because it seemed like doing so would somehow hurt her further. "Red hair," Bebe said, and she tried to clear the shake out of her voice. "No suspect on the scene and -- ah, oh, shh-shit, I. I can ID the victim. That's Ruby, Ruby Tucker, oh. God, yeah, that's her."  
  
Ruby's eyes were closed and her mouth was open. She was missing her tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
On the morning of the press conference about Ruby Tucker's murder, Stan was lingering in Kevin Stoley's bed and staring at the ceiling as the sun came up. Though he was Kevin Stoley-Donovan in most contexts, Stan couldn't help but think of him as purely Kevin Stoley when they were alone together, the kid who had always been there in Stan's classes and yet virtually invisible to Stan until he became Clyde's boyfriend. Clyde was currently in California, and would be back in Colorado in two days. Kevin was snoring on the pillow beside Stan's, which he supposed was actually Clyde's, and Stan was beginning to wish that he'd visited the other Kevin last night. So far this one hadn't done much to quell his anxiety beyond letting Stan fuck him twice. Kevin McCormick tended to be more affectionate, but he also tended to expect to get his dick sucked and to smoke a bowl with Stan afterward, and Stan wasn't up for either of those things when he had a kind of panic attack last night and showed up here.  
  
"I have to go soon," Stan said, speaking to himself and still looking up at the ceiling. He had to prod Kevin's shoulder twice to get him to wake up. "I'd better get going," he said when Kevin blinked at him.  
  
"God," Kevin said, and he rolled onto his back when Stan tried to nuzzle him. "What time is it?"  
  
"Seven. The press conference is at nine."  
  
"Why are you so fidgety about this? It's not like you have to speak. They probably won't even show you on camera."  
  
"Oh, sorry, I guess I just discovered a brutally murdered woman two days ago or something, forgive me for being so sensitive."  
  
"Jesus, come here," Kevin grumbled, and Stan only resisted minimally when Kevin sat up and attempted to pull him into a hug. Stan draped himself across Kevin's lap with resignation, his head on Kevin's thigh. Kevin was sighing as if it was too early for this, but he was also petting Stan's hair, and Stan needed this too much to be very annoyed about the attitude with which it was delivered.  
  
"Her family will be there," Stan said, shivering. "I can't imagine. Their daughter -- his sister. I haven't seen Craig since graduation."  
  
"I'm sure he's still a snotty prick. But yeah, it's really fucked up. Oh, Stan, honey. You're shaking."  
  
"It's cold in here. What have you got the heat on? Clyde can afford to heat this fucking place, can't he?"  
  
"Poor thing," Kevin said, leaning down to kiss Stan's ear. "You're going to be okay. Aren't you? This isn't going to scare you off the force or something?"  
  
"No." Stan sat up, insulted by that. "They're making us do counseling sessions, though. Three each."  
  
"You and Bebe?"  
  
"Yeah, me and Bebe, Kevin, the ones who found the body. Try to keep up."  
  
"You're such a bastard to me all the time! And then you look at me like I kicked your dog when I return the favor."  
  
"Don't fucking lay into me right now," Stan muttered, kicking the blankets away. He got out of bed and stood up, stretching his arms over his head. It really was pretty icy in the Stoley-Donovan manor, and the windows in the bedroom were fogged. "I'm gonna take a shower," Stan said, glumly anticipating the use of Clyde's shampoo and body wash.  
  
"Maybe it's good," Kevin said. "You in therapy."  
  
"Thanks for that."  
  
"I'm not being mean! I'd love to see you, uh. Get something out of it."  
  
Stan didn't want to go to therapy. He didn't think it would help with what he was going through currently and was afraid it might instead peel off old scabs and reopen other wounds. Last night, after coming twice in Kevin's ass and drinking half a bottle of white wine, he'd actually managed to sleep for the first time since they encountered the Ruby Tucker crime scene, but it wasn't a restful sleep. He'd awakened multiple times confused and not sure where he was, a sense that something in the darkness outside the bed was laughing at him, gloating. He didn't typically stay over at Kevin and Clyde's house.  
  
Clyde and Kevin's shower was a theater-like marble deal with a fancy shower head and optional steam. Stan wanted to hide in the fog of the steam for at least an hour, but he kept his shower short, feeling the whole time as if he was trespassing. When he'd dried off he dressed in his uniform. He'd brought it with him the night before, not wanting to sleep alone. Kevin had seemed taken off guard but was ultimately understanding. He was wearing his robe now, yawning, and he came forward to rub Stan's biceps while he buttoned up his uniform shirt.  
  
"Are you alright?" Kevin asked.  
  
"Yeah. I don't know. I've got the kids this weekend, that'll be good. Don't want to be alone right now."  
  
"Of course you don't. I'm sorry we can't go to a movie or something. And Clyde will be back Tuesday night--"  
  
"I know, Kevin, I haven't forgotten the literary giant's schedule."  
  
"Don't get angry. It's not as if you want me to leave him for you."  
  
"That's--" Stan gave Kevin a wary look, edging toward apologetic. No, he didn't want that at all. Kevin snorted.  
  
"Well, that's why this works. But you can call me if you get panicked like that again. Although, ah. Probably not best to stay for the whole night, you know. Where did you park your car?"  
  
"Down the street. Relax. I know how to lay low, it's part of my job. Will you watch the press conference?" he asked, feeling sheepish and dumb for wanting him to. Kevin winced.  
  
"Maybe," he said. "It's so awful. Do they have any suspects?"  
  
"Watch the press conference and find out." They didn't. Stan kissed Kevin's forehead. "Thanks for last night," he said, mumbling. "You're-- it's--"  
  
"Don't mention it. I don't like to be alone either, especially if there's some murderer wandering around. God. Please catch him!"  
  
"Or her."  
  
"Probably him, though."  
  
"Yeah, probably."  
  
Most killers who took trophies from their victims were male. Many who did so were also serial killers, but the department's research hadn't turned up any nearby killings featuring a missing tongue. Nor had they come up with any enemies who might have wanted to harm Ruby. She was well-liked at the Bennigan's where she waitressed, and in her night classes at community college she attended in Fairplay. She was in the nursing program. Stan had seen so many pictures of her smiling and healthy over the past few days, but a million of those could never replace his now-default image of the woman: lifeless on her couch with her neck, chest and stomach sliced open, frozen in that silent scream.  
  
It had gotten colder since Friday, but there was still no whiff of the first snow, which often came around Halloween. Thinking about how far off that was, Stan cursed on his way to his car, his shoulders raised against the cold. Tomorrow was Wayne's birthday. He hadn't forgotten, exactly, but the past few days had left him no time to get a gift. As he climbed into his car he considered stopping by an ATM later and withdrawing some cash, but he still hated the idea too much to actually do it. Cash was a gift from uncles and aunts, sometimes grandparents. Not actual parents, not yet.  
  
The press conference was held at city hall, and there were a surprising amount of news vans parked out front, from stations all over the state. The chief had warned them that the violent death of a young white woman would quickly attract national attention, and to be prepared for the crush of interest. They hadn't released the information about the missing tongue, and didn't plan to unless it became important to the investigation. Stan had a bad feeling that it would.  
  
"Oh, god," Stan said when he found Bebe inside, near the stage where the Chief would give his statement at nine o'clock. "There they are," Stan said, speaking low and trying not to stare at the Tucker family. They were seated in the front row: enormous Thomas, petite Julian and stoic Craig, who was seated between his parents and holding his mother's hand. She looked slightly catatonic, probably by the mercy of Valium or something stronger.  
  
"Yeah," Bebe said, and she brought Stan over to the coffee station. "It's -- I don't have siblings or kids, but that kind of grief, to lose someone violently, just. To know how scared they must have been, and that they never made it past that fear? I can't imagine how you'd bear that. You alright?"  
  
"Me?" Stan accepted a coffee from her and went for the creamers. "Yeah, why?"  
  
"You look a little tired is all."  
  
"Well, yeah. Have you been sleeping?"  
  
"Ambien, Stan, I told you. Every cop should have an emergency supply."  
  
"I don't want to mess with that stuff," Stan said, muttering. He wasn't even sure what his reasons were, except that he normally turned to booze in a stressful situation, and it didn't mix with sleeping pills.  
  
"I went by your place last night after dinner," Bebe said. "Didn't see your car."  
  
"You're checking up on me?" Stan gave her an incredulous look, though he actually appreciated this. She rolled her eyes.  
  
"Your house is on my way home."  
  
"On your way home from where?"  
  
"You first!" she said, swatting him. "Which Kevin was it last night?"  
  
"Shhh!"  
  
"Nobody's listening to us!"  
  
"I don't want to talk about this here," Stan said, and Bebe nodded.  
  
"You're right," she said. "Sorry."  
  
"But you were out with someone?" Stan said, wondering if it was Kenny.  
  
"Quiet," Bebe said, nodding to the stage. "It's about to start."  
  
The Chief took the stage, and Stan tried to remember the last time he'd seen him in a suit and tie rather than a rumpled collar shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He mostly ran a casual station, in terms of appearances and atmosphere, but his temper had been shorter than normal in the days since the discovery of Ruby's body. Despite this, he had been handling Stan and Bebe very carefully since they radioed from the crime scene. Stan didn't like the special treatment, especially because he felt like he was more shaken by the whole thing than Bebe.  
  
Stan tuned out most of the press conference, unable to stop looking at the Tucker family. He had never really been friends with Craig, but their class was so small that they'd often ended up at the same parties anyway. Craig had never dated and had always seemed bizarrely self-contained to Stan, who had the opposite constitution, all of him spilling out everywhere and especially in high school. Craig wore no wedding ring and stared blankly ahead during the entire press conference, still holding his mother's hand. His father was weeping intermittently and without making any noise, his fist pressed to his face.  
  
"You mentioned that there are no suspects at this time," the first reporter who was called upon said. "Are there any persons of interest?"  
  
"We are interviewing Ms. Tucker's co-workers and classmates, and I am not at liberty to disclose the results of those interviews at this time." The Chief seemed embarrassed, and Stan felt it, too. The last murder in South Park was before Stan's time on the force, the result of a domestic dispute and easily solvable. There were reporters here from Denver, and they had probably already decided that these small town hicks couldn't handle anything this serious. And they didn't even know about the tongue.  
  
"Were there signs of forced entry?" another reporter asked, and Stan was surprised to realize he recognized her. She was Nichole Rutland, a girl who'd moved to South Park when Stan was a kid and who went to school with them until high school, when her parents switched her to a private school with a better reputation than Park County High.  
  
"Based upon the evidence it would seem there was no forced entry," the Chief said.  
  
"So it's likely that the victim knew her killer?" Nichole asked.  
  
"I'm not comfortable making that assumption at this time. It's possible the door was left unlocked, or that Ms. Tucker was followed from her car and forced to allow her attacker inside under duress. We just don't know at this juncture."  
  
"Were there signs of sexual assault?" Nichole asked.  
  
"No, none. That's all we have time for, folks. Thank you for your questions."  
  
"That's Nichole from school," Bebe whispered to Stan as the Chief exited the stage amid camera flashes and chatter from the reporters.  
  
"I know," Stan said. "Did you two keep in touch?"  
  
"A little bit, on Facebook. Look, um. We should say something to Craig before they leave."  
  
"Shit. I know."  
  
They hung back until the Tuckers had risen from their chairs and headed outside, and Bebe cut through the crowd toward Craig as he followed his parents toward the parking lot. Stan trailed behind her feeling shy and guilty, his stomach lurching at the thought of looking into Craig's eyes after being too slow to save his sister. According to the medical examiner, Ruby had been dead for less than half an hour by the time Stan and Bebe arrived, and still her killer slipped away unseen, leaving no prints or tracks behind.  
  
"Craig," Bebe said, and he turned. His parents did, too, his father still wet-eyed and his mother's eyes focusing on nothing in particular.  
  
"I'll be there in a minute," Craig said. His father nodded and resumed guiding Mrs. Tucker toward their car.  
  
"Hey," Bebe said. "Jesus, I'm so sorry. We are," she amended, pulling Stan forward. Stan met Craig's eyes and nodded curtly, not wanting to pretend that they had ever been close, though he did want to hug Craig now.  
  
"You found her," Craig said. "They told us. Officers Stevens and Marsh were first on the scene."  
  
"Yeah," Bebe said. "We got a call--"  
  
"I know, I read the whole report. Look, I'd like to talk to you two. Can we meet for a drink when you're off duty?"  
  
"You want to talk--" Bebe glanced at Stan. "Like, off the record?"  
  
"I don't have any useful information, so yes. I'd just like to. Know some things, I guess. Hear them from people rather than read them on paper."  
  
"Of course," Bebe said. "Yeah, hey. Let's meet at Skeeters, eight o'clock. Does that work?"  
  
"Perfect. See you then." Craig's eyes flicked to Stan's, and again Stan did that stupid little nod, feeling pathetic. Craig turned and left, and Bebe let out her breath.  
  
"Is this a good idea?" she asked Stan, muttering.  
  
"Probably not," Stan said. "But I feel like we owe him something."  
  
"Yeah. Me too."  
  
Stan was tense for the rest of the day, anticipating an evening spent with Craig and the memory of his dead sister. At least Bebe would be there. Stan had spent some time over the past few days feeling incredibly grateful that he hadn't discovered that body alone. Even in his nightmares about it, Bebe was always there with him.  
  
"What the hell should I get Wayne for his birthday?" Stan asked as they were finishing up the day's paperwork: two parking violations, three speeders, one barking dog, and no missing tongues or murderers located.  
  
"Hmm," Bebe said, looking up. "I thought he wanted cash?"  
  
"He does, and yet I want to get him a more fatherly-type gift. Is that weird?"  
  
"Nah. How's this: what did your dad get you for your thirteenth birthday?"  
  
"I actually don't remember." He did remember drinking a beer with Randy in the kitchen after Sharon had gone to bed, and Kyle explaining that Stan wasn't a man in the eyes of the Jewish community just because he'd turned thirteen as a gentile.  
  
"Well, there you go," Bebe said. "He won't remember when he's thirty-one, so don't sweat it too much. You could always get him a nice new coat for winter."  
  
"He'd hate whatever I picked out. And he hates getting clothes as gifts."  
  
"How about tickets to a Broncos game?"  
  
"He won't watch football with me anymore."  
  
"Aw, well. Gift certificates for stores at the mall?"  
  
"That's the same as cash, isn't it?"  
  
"Except that he can't buy beer with it!" Bebe said, grinning, and her face fell when she saw Stan's expression. "Sorry, too soon?"  
  
"You're coming to the party, right?" Stan asked.  
  
"Of course! I am his godmother, after all." Bebe had been friends with Lola first. Stan still got her in the divorce.  
  
"So what did you get him?" Stan asked.  
  
"Cash," Bebe said, grinning again.  
  
"Ugh."  
  
"And a card!"  
  
Stan went home to change before meeting up with Bebe and Craig at the bar. He was anxious just being alone in his house, which seemed suddenly unsecured, and he wanted to call Lola every hour or so to make sure the kids were safe and fully in view. He put on one of his nicer shirts and some styling product from a tube of cream that made his hair look shiny, pushed on him by a hairdresser three years ago. It had a faint lavender scent that he found comforting. He drove his truck to the bar, sort of wishing he was in uniform and driving the squad car. It seemed irresponsible not to constantly be in cop-mode until the killer was found and imprisoned. He had his gun belted on, anyway, hidden under his coat. He usually had a self-imposed policy of not carrying when he was drinking, but he wasn't planning on indulging much in Craig's presence.  
  
Skeeter's was typically pretty quiet, but tonight it was packed, loud, and Stan recognized a few of the out of town reporters who had attended the press conference. He passed several discussions about the Ruby Tucker murder as he made his way toward the bar, where Bebe was tolerating the attentions of Eric Cartman, who was smiling the same sharky grin he always had on when he was drunk. He was balding and pushing two-eighty, though his driver's license still said two-fifty. Stan had noticed this the last time he pulled Cartman over for DUI.  
  
"You're here," Bebe said, shooting Stan an irritated look, though he wasn't exactly late. Bebe was wearing a tight black dress and tall black boots, her coat folded over her lap. Cartman was in his usual car salesman suit and tie. He was only leaning on the bar stool beside Bebe's, probably because it wouldn't support the full load of his fat ass.  
  
"Marsh," Cartman said. "We were just talking about you."  
  
"No, we weren't," Bebe said, frowning. "Eric, get lost. And if you come near us when we're talking to Craig I'll be sure to knee you in the balls the next time we have to bring you in."  
  
"What the hell is this hostility?" Cartman asked, appealing to Stan and gesturing to Bebe with his Bud Light. "This is why you can't have women carrying loaded weapons, man. Period feelings come into play and it's like, bam. Loose cannon."  
  
"Get the hell out of here," Stan said, and Cartman sneered but obeyed, stumbling back to a table crowded with the guys he employed at the dealership, who could usually be counted on not to let Cartman drive himself home at the end of the night. "Sorry," Stan said as he took the seat beside Bebe. "Should we get a table?"  
  
"I wanted to, but they're all full. Maybe this isn't the best place to talk."  
  
"Anyway," Stan said, nodding to the door as Craig entered, looking stoic and wearing a fine-looking ivory scarf that set him apart from the locals. "There he is."  
  
Bebe waved Craig over, and Stan moved down to give him a seat between him and Bebe. It took a while to get the bartender's attention, but Bebe had more success than most, and soon they had their drinks: beer for Stan and Bebe and a gin and tonic for Craig.  
  
"Sorry it's so loud," Bebe said. "We could go outside."  
  
"It's fine," Craig said. He took a sip from his drink and looked over at Stan, then at Bebe, before staring down at the glass. "We weren't close," he said. "Me and my sister."  
  
"Oh," Bebe said. "Well--"  
  
"Which is not to say that I'm not devastated. I'm angry. When I first started reading the report, I got the impression that her murder seemed impersonal, random. Did you get that feeling at the scene?"  
  
"Mhmm, not really," Bebe said. "It was. Ah. So violent."  
  
"Well, yes, but she was clothed." Craig drank again, taking two gulps this time. "And not violated in any -- way. That was a relief." He glanced over at Stan as if wanting confirmation, and Stan nodded.  
  
"I'm sure, yeah--" Stan said, turning his beer in his hand; he still hadn't sipped from it. "I hope your parents took some comfort in that, as ridiculous as that probably sounds."  
  
"It doesn't sound ridiculous. Ruby had been to her shift the night before, and to class that morning. The call to the police about a scream was placed at 5:15 in the evening, and she's said to have bled out ten minutes later. Ten minutes of suffering is horrible to think about, but it's not hours. It's not days. And the tongue was removed posthumously."  
  
"Oh, god," Bebe said. "You know about. That."  
  
"Of course, I told you, I read the report. Do you think she knew something, someone's secret, and they killed her to shut her up? The removal of the tongue seems pointed. It sends a message."  
  
"Maybe," Stan said. He tried to give Bebe a wary glance, but she was staring fretfully at her beer bottle. "It's one thing the lead detective was discussing."  
  
"Who is the lead detective?"  
  
"His name is Joel, a guy in his early fifties. He's good, I think, um. We don't see a lot of cases like this, obviously."  
  
"Obviously. Don't take this too personally, but do you think your department is up for the job? Do you think this person will be caught?"  
  
"Yes," Bebe said, quickly. Stan was surprised by her confidence; she seemed to mean it. "I speak for the whole department when I tell you we are not going to let this go. You know what it's like here, how tight-knit the community is. Ruby was part of our family, too, in a way. I remember her as a little girl. In the Christmas pageant, the year she played the star at the top of the tree?"  
  
"Jesus," Craig muttered. He finished his drink and nodded, staring into space.  
  
"Bebe's right," Stan said. "We will figure this out."  
  
"But the killer left no evidence on the scene," Craig said. "It said so in the report. Which suggests that this was planned carefully by someone intelligent."  
  
"We're taking that into account," Bebe said, nodding. "We interviewed your mother briefly, and after the funeral, after she's dealt with the initial shock a bit more, we're going to talk to her again, and your dad, too. All of Ruby's friends. I think the killer did leave one big piece of evidence: the tongue. It means something that's intended to be interpreted, I think you're right. It's frightening, too, because it's the kind of move a serial killer makes."  
  
"But I doubt it's that," Stan said, not wanting to think about a serial killer lurking amid the tight-knit South Park 'family.' "They rarely work in small towns. It's not smart."  
  
"The killer could be moving through a series of small towns," Craig said.  
  
"Exactly," Bebe said. "We'll be keeping an eye on reports of murders across the nation, you can count on that. Looking for any kind of similarities in the staging of the murder."  
  
"The staging," Craig muttered, tilting the ice in his glass.  
  
"Sorry," Bebe said. She touched Craig's shoulder and Stan saw him flinch, but only a little. "The funeral is on Wednesday, I heard?"  
  
"That's right."  
  
"Can I get you another?" Bebe asked. "It's on us."  
  
"I actually need to leave," Craig said. "Talking like this. It's not easy for me."  
  
Stan had been surprised by the seeming ease with which Craig discussed the facts of his sister's death, but Craig was always hard for him to read. Bebe walked him out to his car while Stan lingered to pay the tab. He took his first sip of beer and stared up at the Monday night football game on the bar's single television. The Ravens were leading the Saints in the second quarter. Stan hadn't watched much football since Randy died, and an empty feeling still settled heavy in his chest when he did. Watching with Wayne had helped, back when he was willing.  
  
Stan heard a shout from behind him and turned to see Cartman arguing with one of his dealership buddies. It took Stan less than five seconds to discern the cause for the argument: the guy wanted to drive Cartman home and Cartman wanted to drink more before getting behind the wheel himself.  
  
"Should I call the station?" Skeeter asked when he arrived with Stan's debit card and a receipt to sign. "Or do you want to handle this on a pro bono basis?"  
  
"I'll deal with it," Stan said. He drank some more beer before leaving it half empty on the bar. Cartman had been banned from Skeeter's once before, but it didn't last long. Like most bartenders, Skeeter was a forgiving sort.  
  
"You work for me, motherfucker," Cartman was saying to the exhausted-looking guy who was trying to help him into his coat. "Have you forgotten that? Huh? Who d'ya think signs your paychecks, the fucking tooth fairy?"  
  
"Eric," Stan said sharply. "Lay off. Skeeter wants you out and I'm escorting you home, lucky me."  
  
"Pfff," Cartman said, turning toward Stan with an unsteady wobble. "Fuck Skeeter."  
  
"I can get the handcuffs out of my truck if I need to."  
  
"Ooh, kinky!" Cartman cackled at his own stupid joke, looking around at his employees, who laughed nervously as they shrugged their coats on. They were essentially paid not only to sell cars but to be Cartman's friends. "Marsh wants to cuff me for being a grown man who has a few beers after work."  
  
"Looks to me like you had a few scotches, too," Stan said. He took Cartman's coat and put it over his arm, grabbing Cartman's flabby bicep with his free hand. "C'mon, we're out of here, unless you want to sober up in the drunk tank at the station."  
  
Cartman grumbled a lot but allowed Stan to walk him out of the bar. They ran into Bebe as she was coming back in, and she only looked surprised for a moment.  
  
"Jesus, Eric," she said. "It's Stan's night off."  
  
"It's fine," Stan said. "I'm not really feeling it tonight, anyway."  
  
"Understandable," Bebe said, wilting. "You want company getting him home?"  
  
"Nah, you enjoy the rest of the evening. See you tomorrow on shift."  
  
Cartman made a few worrying noises as they pulled out of the parking lot of Skeeter's, but he settled in against the passenger door of Stan's truck without actually puking. He began to study Stan in a distracting, disparaging way, his lip partially raised.  
  
"Marsh," Cartman said, and he scoffed as if the name itself was embarrassing.  
  
"How about you put your seat belt on?" Stan said.  
  
"How about you suck my cock?" Cartman grinned when Stan looked over at him, the backs of his ears getting hot with rage. "I've heard you like that sort of thing," Cartman said.  
  
"Huh." Stan looked out at the road, trying to keep his face impassive. "Where'd you hear that, exactly?"  
  
"Oh, just, _around_. And anyway, I could always tell, by the way you sniffed at Broflovski's crotch in high school. Whatever happened to that faggy little Jew, anyway?"  
  
"You want to get dumped on the side of the road?" Stan barked, his heart slamming now. They were on the rural stretch of two-lane highway between Skeeter's and the center of town, and it would freeze tonight; Stan could smell it. Cartman just giggled drunkenly. He knew Stan wouldn't do it.  
  
"Sorry, sorry," Cartman said, openly insincere. "I forgot how sensitive you are about that ginger fuck. I'm seriously, though, what became of him? He gay married yet or what?"  
  
"I don't know. We don't keep in touch."  
  
"Aww, what a tragedy. Hey, speaking of tragedies. You guys gonna catch this woman killer or what? My mom's real freaked out."  
  
"We plan to catch him, yeah."  
  
"Him? So sure it's a man? Could be some psycho lesbo friend who was in love with her."  
  
"Thanks for your input, very astute."  
  
"Why, you're welcome! You assholes should consult with me more often. I am a little psychic, as you'll recall."  
  
"Mhm, no, I think that was Kyle."  
  
Stan knew instantly that he shouldn't have said Kyle's name, thereby reopening the subject. His ears were really burning now, and his throat felt a little tight. He could practically hear Cartman's shit-eating grin.  
  
"That's a real shame, you and Jew boy not being friends anymore. I guess he didn't take too kindly to you knocking up your other girlfriend with a teen pregnancy, huh?"  
  
"You were always obsessed with him," Stan said, and Cartman was too drunk to keep from sputtering in surprise when he heard this.  
  
"Me? Huh? I was? Look who's talking! You were the fucking president and founder of the Lick Kyle's Balls foundation, okay, it was embarrassing."  
  
"He was my friend. You were something else. Hey, speaking of high school and crotch sniffing, I heard Butters might be back in town soon."  
  
This seemed to take more wind from Cartman's sails, which Stan enjoyed until Cartman's lip started shaking.  
  
"Oh, Christ," Stan groaned. "Don't cry."  
  
"I'm not -- fucking, shut up, I'm not crying! You. I -- where'd you hear that? When's he coming?"  
  
"I don't know, I just heard he needs to deal with his mother."  
  
Cartman was quiet for a while, staring out the window and doing a poor job of pretending not to be emotional. His drunkenness typically went through three stages: joyous and goofy, loud and abusive, and finally came the weeping. Witnessing this reminded Stan of his father when he was at his worst.  
  
"Who do you think did it?" Cartman asked while he was still staring out the window, and something about hearing that question in Cartman's croaky, slurring voice made the hair on the back of Stan's neck stand up.  
  
"Ruby?"  
  
"Yeah, Ruby. It's a small town, and they put up those road blocks near the highway after you found her. It's either a drifter who's still hiding out here or one of us. Somebody we know."  
  
"Not necessarily--"  
  
"I heard someone saying there's homeless people living in the old geneticist's lab up in the mountains. Bums, burnouts, dangerous folk. You and your fellow badge monkeys outta check that out."  
  
"We've heard those rumors hundreds of times. We do routines checks up there and we've never--"  
  
"I'm just saying, the woods are vast and thick and they're all around us, here."  
  
Stan looked at Cartman, and regretted it when he saw that Cartman was looking at him, too. He had a wild, half-awake sort of drift in his eyes, as if he was sleep-walking, and his bloated cheeks were rosy in a disturbingly child-like way.  
  
"You sound like you're quoting Lord of the Rings," Stan said. Cartman turned back to the window.  
  
"Maybe I am," he said, mumbling. "I don't fucking know. Jesus, I fucked up. I fucked up real bad, Stan."  
  
"How so?" Stan asked, alarmed. Cartman said nothing, and then he was snoring, his mouth leaving a foggy wet mark on the truck's window.  
  
Stan walked Cartman to his front door and dumped him into Liane's arms. He went back to his truck feeling rattled. He shouldn't have attempted to talk about Kyle with anyone, let alone that asshole, and Cartman had become so strange and sad, a kind of garish flower that had rotted in its pot, never transplanted elsewhere. Stan drove home slowly, watching the roadside for suspicious characters. All he saw were a few deer, their eyes glowing from the darkness near the edge of the woods.  
  
**  
  
The following day was Wayne's thirteenth birthday, and Stan woke up feeling bereft. When they all lived together, he always made a special breakfast on the kids' birthdays, more or less whatever they wanted. One year Wayne wanted chocolate chip waffles with chocolate ice cream, and Stan made it happen. For her sixth birthday, Evan had wanted to eat an entire tub of cake frosting with a spoon, and Lola drew the line there.  
  
Stan ate oatmeal alone at the kitchen table, then headed to Target, desperate to find something for Wayne that wasn't just a wad of cash or an equally impersonal gift card. He'd already contributed money to the new iPad Lola had purchased and wrapped for Wayne, and though it was a joint present Stan also wanted to get his son some kind of token to welcome him to teenagehood, a little something that would make him feel special and loved, even if he grimaced at it in the presence of his friends.  
  
Target did not seem to be the place to find such things. Everything was glossy and fake, soulless. Stan tried the mall next, browsing expensive and flashy toys and feeling increasingly depressed. Finally, he found a small wooden box at a home decor boutique. He paid fifty dollars for it, which was ridiculous, but it had an octopus carved on the lid. Wayne had loved octopi as a boy. For an elementary school civics project he wrote a presentation on why octopus should be banned from the menus of South Park restaurants: because they were smart, essentially. Only City Sushi and one tapas place had ever served octopus in South Park, and though City Sushi wasn't moved by Wayne's essay, the tapas place did go out of business a few months later, probably for unrelated reasons. Stan had been really proud of Wayne for caring about animal welfare, and he had showered him in octopus-related gifts ever since. He was aware that this box probably wouldn't go over well, but he put an old picture of him and Wayne inside it anyway, hoping that he might appreciate this later, in a moment of private reflection, or perhaps in hindsight when he was thirty.  
  
The picture Stan chose was of the two of them at the ranch outside of town. Wayne was five years old and seated on a horse, smiling widely. Stan was beaming, too, his arm around Wayne's waist as he stood beside the horse, steadying it and posing for Lola's camera. That was the year when Lola was pregnant with Evan, and they had all been happy. Stan had assumed that the feeling he had that day, warm under the late summer sun and content to be with his family, was one of finally settling into a comfortable if imperfect adult life. He was preparing to graduate from the police academy, looking forward to having a daughter and generally wanting for nothing that day. It was a couple of years after Evan was born when that feeling seemed to return much less often, and Stan felt as if he was always in a disorienting state of wanting both everything and nothing, working his way back toward the depression that descended at age ten. He kissed the octopus box when the picture was closed inside it, saying a mental prayer for Wayne. He never wanted his kids to know that empty feeling, and needed to believe that Wayne had tried beer just to impress his friends, not because he wanted an escape from his own exhausting mind.  
  
The party was a small thing they did every year for family and a few of Wayne's friends, homemade cake and a barbecue in the backyard after the kids got out of school. Stan had the whole day off, and he showed up early to help Lola with the cooking. She sighed and put her arms around him when he came to the door, and he hugged her back with enthusiasm, greedy for human contact and feeling nostalgic about their old life together. Lola had suggested their separation, but it hadn't exactly felt like it was her idea.  
  
"You okay?" she asked quietly, lingering in the doorway.  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine. Saw Craig last night and talked to him a little. That was weird."  
  
"Oh, god, yeah, I'd heard he was in town. How's he holding up?"  
  
"He seems shaken, but I guess they weren't close. I felt so guilty, just looking at him."  
  
"Stan." Lola shook her head. "I always worried about you and this job. You take everything to heart. And now this."  
  
"I got him a gift," Stan said, not wanting to talk about that here. He could hear Wayne arguing with Evan in the living room, something about the TV. He passed the wrapped octopus box to Lola. "Just a little thing. He won't like it."  
  
"He will," she said, though she didn't know what it was. "He misses you," she said, speaking quietly again.  
  
"I miss him." Stan swallowed and shrugged. "Need help with the meat?"  
  
"I've learned how to grill hamburgers in your absence," Lola said, but she allowed him to take over while she finished the other preparations. Stan was elated when Wayne came out to stand beside him and survey the burgers, and he tried not to show it too obnoxiously, giving him a one-armed hug while working the spatula with his other hand.  
  
"You got me an octopus box," Wayne said, keeping his eyes on the grill.  
  
"Aw, you opened it already?"  
  
"Mom didn't say I had to wait. Sorry. I mean. It's cool, thanks."  
  
"Seriously?" Stan tried to scale back his shock, grinning. "Yeah, um. I know you like them. Octopuses. Remember your octopus petition?"  
  
"God, that was so embarrassing. Why'd you guys let me do that?"  
  
"It was for school, and it was sweet." Stan realized he'd picked the wrong adjective. Wayne grunted and returned to the house, where Stan could hear Jimbo and Ned arriving, Jimbo greeting everyone at high volume as usual.  
  
The party was in full swing half an hour later, and Stan was relieved when Bebe arrived, rescuing him from an uncomfortable conversation with Jimbo about the murder investigation and whether single women should be legally required to own firearms for protection. Kenny walked in with Bebe, which was interesting. He had been invited independently, but they seemed to have come together.  
  
"Look, it's your godparents!" Kenny said as he gave Wayne a couple of back slaps, refraining from a hug because Wayne's slouching friends were present. Paul was not among them. They were playing video games in the center of the living room, Wayne occasionally pausing to receive his guests.  
  
"Thanks," Wayne said, accepting his money-stuffed card from Bebe and some violent-looking video game from Kenny. "Oh, awesome," he said, examining the game. "Can we play this now?"  
  
He seemed to be asking Stan, who shook his head and drank from the beer he'd been carrying around.  
  
"Your grandma would freak if severed limbs started bouncing around the screen the next time she walks through here."  
  
Stan was referring to Lola's mother. Sharon would visit at Thanksgiving, but she wasn't making the trip down for Wayne and Stan's birthdays this year. Airfares had gotten too expensive.  
  
"Speaking of severed things," Kenny said as Stan led him and Bebe to the bar area. "Any developments on Craig's sister?"  
  
"No. I take it you're doing the funeral?"  
  
"Yeah, and they want a viewing, but it shouldn't be too tricky. No real facial damage, weirdly. Despite the tongue."  
  
"Let's not talk about it here," Bebe said. "People don't know about the tongue," she said, more quietly.  
  
"Rumor's getting around, actually," Kenny said, and he held up his hands when she boggled at him. "It's not me! I don't know who's talking. Maybe the family."  
  
"Bebe's right," Stan said, feeling queasy. "Let's talk about something else."  
  
"Such as?" Kenny said. "It's all I can think about. Karen was friends with her, growing up. I knew her, man. Who did this?"  
  
"We're working on it," Bebe said, tightly, and Stan wasn't sure if the look that passed between them betrayed the intimacy of having recently slept together or the other, older familiarity of having slept together quite a few times in the past.  
  
"What's with you two?" Stan asked when Kenny wandered off to say hello to Jimbo.  
  
"Huh?" Bebe said. She glanced at Kenny. "Nothing -- what?"  
  
"I thought you came together."  
  
"I'm his designated driver," Bebe said. She rolled her eyes. "He smoked with his brother before he came."  
  
"Oh, lovely." Stan was kind of jealous, actually. It had been a while since he had a Kevin McCormick evening, which generally involved adopting Kevin's happily shiftless attitude toward life, at least for a few hours.  
  
"How was it with getting Cartman home last night?" Bebe asked. "Thanks for taking that bullet."  
  
"It was fine. Actually, weird. He said something really weird about -- the woods? And he said he fucked up."  
  
"Well, yeah, his whole life is one fuck up after another. Was Liane home?"  
  
Stan nodded and let the subject drop. He supposed his lingering anxiety about talking with Cartman had more to do with his taunts about Kyle than anything else.  
  
Aside from enduring his former mother-in-law's occasional cold stares, Stan was enjoying himself at the party, his mood buoyed by Wayne saying the octopus box was cool. Wayne mostly hung out with his friends while Stan spent time with Evan, who asked him several uncomfortable questions about the murder and hugged him a lot, in a worried sort of way, as if he had narrowly escaped death himself.  
  
"If you find the guy," she said when they were sitting on the back porch together, watching the last of the sunset, "Will you have to kill him?"  
  
"No," Stan said, though he supposed that was possible. He had threatened a few times, but had never actually fired at anyone in the line of duty. "He'd be arrested. Not killed. Everyone gets to have a trial."  
  
"Even if they _killed_ a girl?" Evan said.  
  
"Yeah, even then, because the lawyers have to prove the cops arrested the right guy."  
  
"But what if he had a knife, Dad?"  
  
"What -- huh?"  
  
"When you found him, the bad guy. If he had a knife, and he slashed it at you, would you kill him then?"  
  
"Ev, no -- it wouldn't work that way."  
  
Stan remained perturbed by this conversation as they gathered around the cake, darkness falling outside while Lola lit thirteen candles. Wayne was sighing like he was too old for this but not actively retreating. Kenny was laughing under his breath and Bebe seemed annoyed. Just as Lola told the group it was time to sing the birthday song, Bebe's phone went off. Half a second later, Stan's did, too. They looked at each other over the cake: simultaneous calls had never been a good sign in the past, and Stan wasn't surprised to see that it was the station calling when he pulled his phone out.  
  
"Sorry," he said when Lola gave him a look. "I have to--"  
  
"Maybe they caught the murderer!" Wayne's friend Trent shouted.  
  
"Lieutenant Marsh," Stan said when he answered.  
  
"This is dispatch requesting assistance at a residence at the corner of Trenton Avenue and Vine Street. Residence is number 745 on Vine. Sorry, Stan. I know you're off duty, but it's -- they need you and Bebe on the scene."  
  
"Me and--"  
  
"It's a homicide. Chief needs you on the scene ASAP to note any similarities to the murder you guys called in on Friday."  
  
"Jesus. Okay, yeah. On our way." He hung up and looked at Bebe, who nodded.  
  
"What is it?" Wayne asked. He looked scared, but maybe Stan was only projecting. He'd forgotten to ask who the victim was. It was unlikely that it would be a complete stranger.  
  
"We got called to duty," Bebe said. "An emergency, sorry, we have to go now."  
  
"Is it another murder?" Jimbo asked, bellowing this.  
  
"Whoa!" Trent said. "Really?"  
  
"We'll fill you in as soon as we can," Stan said, grabbing his coat from the back of a kitchen chair. "Sorry, buddy," he said to Wayne, who shrugged.  
  
"It doesn't matter," he said, and Stan left the house with a sense of dread so enormous that he felt like there wasn't enough oxygen in the air outside. It did matter: something was very wrong in South Park.  
  
"Well, fuck," Bebe said. "Want me to drive?"  
  
"Yeah, I had two beers." Stan felt completely sober, despite this, but too shaky to get behind the wheel. "Did dispatch tell you who the vic was?"  
  
"Male, mid-twenties. That was all I got."  
  
By the time they got to Trenton and Vine, Stan's stomach was pinched so tightly that it felt like it had folded in half. The whole block was flooded with parked squad cars, and there was a coroner's van parked in the driveway of number 745. Stan and Bebe had their Park County coats on, but Stan didn't even have his gun. He supposed he wouldn't need it.  
  
"Oh shit," Bebe said as she parked. "What. Why are there kids?"  
  
Stan saw what she was referring to as he climbed out of the car, his pinched stomach cramping up tighter. Out in front of the house there was a woman talking to the grief counselor the Park County station shared with the Fairplay PD, and there were two blond kids clutched to her sides, one boy and one girl. Stan felt the color drain from his face when he recognized them from somewhere. He couldn't place their names, but he definitely knew these people from around town. The Chief spotted him and Bebe and waved them toward the front door of the house, where he was standing with a medical examiner. Stan's vision tunnelled as he moved toward the crime scene, and he imagined Ruby's corpse waiting for him inside before reminding himself that this one could be worse.  
  
"David Harrison," the Chief said when Bebe and Stan arrived. "Killed in the same manner as the Tucker girl. Wife picked up the kids from school, stopped by the grocery store on their way home, walked in to find this."  
  
"Jesus," Bebe said.  
  
"Harrison," Stan said, steadying himself on the iron railing that lined the front steps. "That's. One of the Mormon kids? Gary's brother?"  
  
"Don't know," the Chief said, but Stan did, then: he was sure. Gary didn't live in South Park anymore, but his parents and some siblings still did, David included. Stan looked into the house, realizing that he was about to confront the fact that David no longer lived here. He'd died here.  
  
"Gary," Stan said, not speaking to anyone present. "He'll be--"  
  
"Have they found any evidence inside yet?" Bebe asked. She sounded angry, and Stan knew he needed to channel his anger, too, if he was going to get through this.  
  
"Not yet," the Chief said. "They're taking photos now, but I wanted to have you two put your eyes on the scene before the coroner takes the body. I know it's not easy, but really take your time. I need you to report absolutely every detail that's similar, no matter how small it seems. Marsh, you going to be sick?"  
  
"What?" Stan gripped the railing more tightly, putting shoulders back. "No, sir."  
  
"You're a little green," Bebe said. "He knows the victim's brother," she said, to the Chief. "They're friends."  
  
"I'm fine," Stan said, already wondering if he should be the one to make the call to Gary. No, that would be David's widow, or Gary's parents. "God," he said, and he turned toward the doorway, his mouth dry. "Let's go, let's do it, I'm alright."  
  
Like Ruby, David was seated on the couch in the front room, posed to greet whomever came through the door. Stan swallowed against his gag reflex and hoped that the kids hadn't even gotten a glimpse, that David's wife had backed up before they could step through the door. At first glance, David and Ruby's dead bodies were near mirror images, cut in three places and missing a tongue, but after a few seconds Stan noticed the most obvious difference.  
  
"The middle cut," he said. The Chief was standing between him and Bebe, poised to take notes.  
  
"It's diagonal," Bebe said. "The chest wound - on Ruby it was horizontal."  
  
"We noted that," the Chief said. "Look closer. Look at the room, smell the air. Anything popping out at you?"  
  
"The furniture's not disturbed," Stan said. "With Ruby there was more of a struggle."  
  
"Which is odd," Bebe said. "Considering David is -- was -- bigger and likely stronger than she was."  
  
"There was no forced entry, either," the Chief said. "Fuck, if only it had snowed. But he would have covered his tracks anyway. This guy is a professional animal. These victims have to be connected in some way, either in reality or in his mind."  
  
"Ruby and David?" Bebe said. "Are they the same age?"  
  
"Nearly. David Harrison was 25. Ruby Tucker was 27."  
  
Their discussion continued, but Stan lost the ability to follow it, his gaze frozen on David's body. David's eyes were closed, his hands turned palms-up on the couch cushions in a gesture of surrender. There was no bruising on his face, indicating that his tongue, like Ruby's, had been removed after he was already dead. His shoes were tied, belt buckled, and his hair seemed neatened in a way that made Stan envision the killer doing so after his victim had stopped twitching, just before he crept away unseen.  
  
"It's a two," Stan said.  
  
Bebe and the Chief stopped talking and turned to him.  
  
"Sorry, Lieutenant?" the Chief said.  
  
"The three cuts. I was thinking it was like a 'Z' pattern, but it could be the number two. On Ruby there were three slashes, all horizontal. And the report said they were made right to left. Like you'd -- like you'd write the number three, facing left. On this one -- on David it's like a number two."  
  
"I'll mention that to Olmert. He'll want to talk to you both before he writes up his report. I'm going to have you both file a report on the scene, too, and any similarities to how you found Tucker. Take some more time here, and focus. That's a good start, Marsh. The number two, sure. Could be."  
  
Despite his good start, Stan wasn't able to come up with anything more from viewing the body or the room, aside from an increasingly knife-sharp horror that seemed to be emanating from the pit of his stomach. An hour later the coroner transferred David's body to a stretcher, and Stan made it all the way to the station without getting sick, but as soon as he was alone in the men's room he retched a few times, unable to actually purge anything, physical or otherwise.  
  
It was after midnight by the time he finished writing his report, and Wayne was in bed when he called the house, his birthday over.  
  
"It's horrible," Lola said on the phone, whispering. "Who would attack that family? What kind of monster would want to hurt that sweet man?"  
  
"You want me to come over?" Stan asked, hopeful. "Just, I mean. I could sleep on the couch, if the kids are scared. I'm sure people are already talking."  
  
"My parents are still here, they're sleeping on the fold-out," Lola said. "But, thanks."  
  
"You need anything, just call me. Just. Watch the kids, you know, until we-- find something. Someone."  
  
"Stan, you sound so tired. Are you still at work?"  
  
"Headed home now."  
  
He had intended to go home, but as soon as Bebe dropped him off at his car, still parked on the street outside the house he used to share with Lola, he knew he wouldn't make it back to his place. Instead, he headed to Kevin McCormick's apartment, relived when he saw that the light was still on in his front window. Kevin worked the night shift at the liquor store and usually slept from six in the morning to three in the afternoon. He answered the door with his usual loopy grin, and didn't seem to notice how freaked out Stan was until he was inside, engulfed in the comforting glow from Kevin's freshwater aquarium and by the smell of pot that laced the air in every room of his apartment.  
  
"You're all pale," Kevin said, and he bent down to kiss Stan's cheek. Like Kenny, he was over six feet tall and had a wide chest. Kevin's shoulders were thicker than Kenny's, and he had a chin that was padded but not quite double. He was getting a little fat, recently, but Stan didn't much care at the moment or in general. He already felt pathetic for ending up with his head in the toilet at the station, so he avoided the temptation to dump himself against Kevin's chest and moved around him, going for the lit joint that was resting in the ashtray Kevin kept on his pot-dusted coffee table.  
  
"I've seen two mutilated bodies in the past three days," Stan said after he'd taken a drag. "I need, just. Can I hang out?"  
  
"Of course, dude, yeah. Jesus, I saw that on the news, they found another body? Some family man, younger than me? Some fucked up shit. You want a beer?"  
  
"I just want to sit down," Stan said, and he did, collapsing onto Kevin's scummy old couch with the joint still pinched between his fingers. He dragged on it again, feeling guilty, though it wasn't like anyone needed him at the moment. He'd pulled an extra six hour shift, there'd been nobody to save on the scene, the person who killed David Harrison was invisible, and Stan's ex-in-laws were standing guard at his ex-house along with Lola. Stan felt like a spare part, and he wondered if Bebe had been headed over to Kenny's when she left the station, and who had driven him home from the party after she left. Possibly he'd walked; it was very Kenny to be content with just walking for miles if that meant he could have a buzz while he travelled. Stan took another hit from the joint, his stomach finally beginning to settle. He accepted a can of Country Time Lemonade when Kevin brought it from the kitchen, and gladly cuddled into the slightly rank heat of Kevin's body when he sat close and put his arm around Stan's shoulders.  
  
"Sorry you had to see that shit," Kevin said, touching Stan's face. He was always doing that, stroking Stan's cheeks and jaw, pinching his chin. It was sort of annoying, sort of endearing. He had pretty big hands, and Stan could never decide if he was attracted or repulsed by this.  
  
"I wish this kind of thing didn't fuck me up so bad," Stan said. "I mean, it fucks everybody up, sure, but it happens, and it's part of my job. Apparently, now."  
  
"Is it a serial killer? They were saying that on the news."  
  
"I don't know about that, but the murders are definitely connected. God, I don't want to talk about it. I just spent two hours writing a report, and an hour before that with the lead detective, almost an hour on the scene--"  
  
"Okay, shhh," Kevin said, and Stan leaned away a little when he did the cheek stroking thing again. "You want me to fuck you?" Kevin asked, sweetly, and Stan snorted.  
  
"No. Maybe later. My son turned thirteen today, did Kenny tell you? Yesterday, I guess, actually. What time is it?"  
  
"Umm, quarter till one," Kevin said, peering at the clock on his phone, which was lying on the coffee table next to the ashtray. "Kenny said he was going to a party, earlier," Kevin said, and he maneuvered Stan until he could rub his shoulders. It felt good, and Stan let his head drop forward, his eyes sliding shut. "I didn't know it was your kid's party. Though maybe Kenny did mention that. He was buying that video game, yeah."  
  
"Is he sleeping with Bebe again?" Stan asked, his voice already deteriorating into a mumble. He was going to sleep soon, he had to, but it wasn't going to be very restful. He felt like he was already in the prelude to a nightmare, could almost hear the eerie music building softly in the background.  
  
"Hmm," Kevin said. "I don't know, man, he might be fucking her. She's a cool chick, probably too good for him. I gotta go to the parlor for that girl's funeral tomorrow, he wants me parking cars. I guess he'll have to do another one soon. They gonna catch this guy or what?"  
  
"Yes," Stan said, though he felt less confident about this than he had after they found Ruby. Something darker than the killings themselves was at work in South Park. Someone was trying to have a conversation with the town, and they were writing their messages in mortal wounds.  
  
Stan fell asleep on the couch before he could finish his can of lemonade. Though Kevin could barely fit on the couch by himself, he stayed there with Stan, half on top of him. It was comforting, being anchored to the earth by another person while he slept, but not exactly comfortable, and Stan woke five times before his phone rang at the crack of dawn, rousing him from one semi-lucid state and into another.  
  
"Marsh." It was the Chief, and Stan was pretty sure he hadn't slept at all. "I need you back at the crime scene as soon as you can get here in uniform."  
  
"Get -- you mean, to the station?"  
  
"No, the goddamn crime scene at Vine. I turned my back for two minutes and they've got FBI from Denver crawling all over my shit. It's not protocol -- they think they can show up at four in the morning and I won't notice?"  
  
"What -- okay, um. I could be there in about half an hour, I think."  
  
"Don't think, Lieutenant, do it!"  
  
The Chief hung up, and Stan appreciated that, for the first time since the Tucker murder, he wasn't treating Stan as if he was delicate and in need of special handling. Kevin was still asleep behind Stan on the couch, and Stan didn't bother to wake him or leave a note. He and Kevin regularly made speedy exits while the other was sleeping; neither of them took anything about this situation very personally, despite all the cheek stroking.  
  
Stan felt light-headed and heavy-limbed on the way to his car, and the inside of his mouth tasted terrible. At his house, he peeled off his stale clothes and brushed his teeth, but didn't allow time for showering. He wasn't accustomed to dealing with the FBI, but he'd heard they were a pain the ass, condescending, unwilling to respect local knowledge and biased against other organizations in ways that could screw over an investigation. Since this was the highest profile case South Park had dealt with in decades, Stan wasn't surprised that they were trying to get involved, but he was already in support of the Chief's distaste for their meddling. He dressed in a clean uniform, his last one, and hoped he'd have the time and energy to get to the dry cleaners later in the day.  
  
His stomach started tightening again as he pulled onto Vine Street, and he realized he was afraid that the body would still be there, though in his rational mind he was aware that it was now at the morgue. Exiting the car in uniform and with his gun on his hip made him feel less raw than he had the day before, but only slightly. He searched the mix of cops and FBI agents on the front lawn for Bebe, and at first his eyes skipped over the red-haired man standing near the garage and talking with some other random suit. Then his breath stuttered and he felt something shift in the cold morning air, at the pit of his stomach, and in a painful corner of his heart that wasn't as strongly fortified as he'd thought, doors he'd locked there years ago already straining outward and threatening to burst open, because that was Kyle Broflovski standing there, talking to some guy, not even noticing as Stan moved toward him in a kind of disbelieving trance.  
  
"Kyle?" Stan said, and only after Kyle and the other man turned to him did he realize he'd thought he could say that without having Kyle actually hear it.  
  
"Oh." Kyle frowned slightly. His hair was on the short side, styled carefully, and he didn't look like he'd been up since four in the morning. "Hi, yes, good. Finally, a cop who will cooperate with us. Mac, this is Stan Marsh, we knew each other as kids. Stan, this is my--"  
  
"What are you doing here?" Stan asked, too tired not to nearly shout this, disbelief clouding his vision at the corners. He wanted to drag Kyle aside and yell at him, because this made no sense, and because Stan was still, it turned out, so fucking angry.  
  
"No one told you?" Kyle said, frowning again. He pushed his shoulders back, straightened his fitted suit jacket and lifted his chin a little. Stan and this Mac character were both taller than Kyle, and Stan felt like Kyle was maybe bothered by this, because he'd always been sensitive about his height, though he wasn't actually that short -- but Stan didn't know Kyle anymore and there was no fucking telling what he was going to say next, based on what he'd said already.  
  
"I'm here with the FBI," Kyle said, and Stan almost laughed when he got out his badge and showed it to Stan. "I'm lead on this investigation, though your police chief is in some kind of hysterical denial about that. We're in the process of clearing the cops out of here, actually, though we will need them to keep traffic off this road."  
  
"What are you _talking_ about?" Stan asked, waiting to wake up from this new nightmare, back on Kevin's couch, though everything around him suddenly felt more real than it had in days, in a brutal sort of way. Kyle glanced at Mac and raised his eyebrows slightly before turning back to Stan.  
  
"I'm just telling you, Stan," Kyle said, stepping toward him, "Because apparently no one else has. The murders in South Park are now under investigation by the FBI. We're here from Denver to help. I took a special assignment because I have familiarity with the region, from growing up here."  
  
"Familiarity with the region," Stan said, biting the words out.  
  
"Yes," Kyle said. He actually had the balls to smile then, friendly-like. "To put it simply, well. This is my crime scene now."


	3. Chapter 3

Stan hadn't even seen pictures of Kyle for over a year, and the sight of his face was an unwanted trip back through time. It had always been that way: disarmingly familiar, a relic from Stan's earliest memories of happiness and terror. It wasn't Kyle that had scared him, back then, but what might happen to Kyle if he succumbed to his various illnesses or fell prey to Cartman's schemes. Now Stan was experiencing something akin to terror just from seeing him without warning, and he was afraid to do or say the wrong thing, which brought to mind another kind of Kyle memory altogether. 

"You," Stan managed to say while Kyle and his partner stared. 

"I'll be damned," Bebe said. "I mean, I guess it makes sense. You do know the neighborhood." She scoffed and stepped forward to whack Kyle on the shoulder. He didn't seem especially receptive to the gesture. "Welcome to the investigation," Bebe said, a bit sharply. 

"You're being pulled from it," Mac said. "We need you to help keep the street clear while we survey the crime scene." 

"I'll wait to hear that from my actual boss," Bebe said. "Thanks."

"Stan, Bebe, this is my partner, Ryan MacKenzie," Kyle said, and that took the wind out of Stan like a sock to the gut, as if Kyle was introducing his husband. "Mac, these are some of the friends I was telling you about. I'm sure they'll be very helpful." 

Stan made an insulted noise without meaning to. Kyle seemed to be avoiding his eyes, his mouth a little pinched. 

"Of course we can help," Bebe said. "If you really are going to take over the investigation, you'll need to talk to us. Me and Stan discovered the first vic, and we were on the scene before the coroner took the second one." 

"Oh," Kyle said. He met Stan's gaze then, and for a moment he seemed a bit lost. "That's. I'm sure you don't see crime scenes like that often, um. Here in South Park." 

"Stevens! Marsh!"

The Chief was heading toward them, and he looked so pissed off that for a moment Stan felt a prehistoric twinge of protectiveness, as if he should step in front of Kyle and shield him. 

"Chief Yates," Kyle said, showing no sign of intimidation, which Stan thought was pretty ballsy. Kyle could at least defer to Yates a little, based on their age difference. Instead, Kyle flashed his badge in the Chief's face as he arrived. "I'm Special Agent Broflovski, and this is my partner, Special Agent MacKenzie. We were told there's been some kind of misunderstanding--"

"You're goddamn right there's been a misunderstanding," Yates said. "Nobody in Denver cleared this through me. This is an ambush, and I won't--"

"We've got our paperwork in order," MacKenzie said. He was almost smiling as he presented a dossier to Yates. "We didn't think it would be an issue when our field agents arrived, but if you truly doubt that we've been properly assigned here, feel free to review the Bureau signatures. You can call our boss, if you like?" MacKenzie dug out his cell phone, as if Yates wouldn't have one. Yates threw the dossier back at him, and MacKenzie's small smile quirked. He was a good-looking guy with dark brown hair and a day's worth of stubble, and he appeared to be about Kyle's age. Stan wanted to stomp on his foot. Kyle seemed mildly embarrassed; he was touching his tie. 

"Shove your signatures up your ass," Yates said. "This is our investigation, and two murders are hardly grounds for an FBI takeover. We can handle this, and I will be calling your supervisor, kid." 

"Feel free," MacKenzie said, offering the phone again. Bebe caught Yates' arm when he moved as if to slap it out of MacKenzie's hand. 

"Chief," Bebe said, and her cheeks went red when Yates turned his furious look on her. "It's been a long night. Do you want me to get in touch with the Denver FBI? We can sort this all out, I'm sure."

The Chief and Bebe stepped aside to have a muttered conversation, and MacKenzie pulled Kyle away to do the same. Stan stood between the two factions, staring openly at Kyle. He had stopped fidgeting with his tie and now had his hands crossed over his chest, his head tilted down as he listened to MacKenzie, nodding. When Kyle looked up and saw Stan watching him, his expression took on a pitying quality that made Stan scowl and turn away. He walked over to Bebe and Yates, shaking with a kind of rage that made him feel exposed, as if this was one of his dreams where he showed up to work in his underwear.

"This is exactly how an investigation gets screwed up," Yates was saying, almost spitting with anger. "Bureaucratic crap, and this imaginary idea that some outside organization is going to run a tighter ship, despite the fact that they don't know shit from shinola about what goes on in this town. It's bullshit!"

"I agree," Bebe said. "But Kyle, well. He did grow up here."

"So?" Stan said, and they both turned to him as if they hadn't realized he was there. "That doesn't mean. He doesn't know shit, Bebe. He's been away for a long time."

"Well, sure." Bebe frowned a little and turned back to the Chief. "Do you want me to look into this?" she asked. He shook his head. 

"I'll take care of it," he said, muttering. "Back at the station, I'll make some calls. You two stay here and make sure they don't screw anything up." 

Stan wasn't sure what could be screwed up, with the body already moved from the crime scene and the surviving members of the Harrison family staying across town at the Holiday Inn, awaiting the arrival of more relatives. He stood beside Bebe as they watched the Chief walking toward his car, barking at guys in black FBI windbreakers to get out of his way. 

"This is fucking weird," Bebe said, peeking over her shoulder at Kyle and MacKenzie. "Oh, shit," she said, under her breath. "He's coming over here."

"Kyle?" Stan's heart was already racing.

"Uh-huh."

Stan braced himself and turned, glad to see that MacKenzie was wandering off in the other direction, toward the house. Kyle was pale but seemed healthy, not as underfed as he'd appeared to be throughout high school. The short hair was odd, but Stan could see why he'd styled it that way. Kyle looked professional, serious, and, when his tie blew back over his shoulder, cute. Stan was infuriated, by this and by everything that was suddenly happening, and as Kyle drew closer he gave Stan a look that clearly asked him to calm the fuck down, please. 

"Wow," Bebe said. "Your partner is pretty impressed with himself."

"Sorry about that." Kyle grabbed his tie and tucked it back into his jacket. "He's, um. Anyway, I will need your help, and I'm sorry your Chief is taking this so personally--"

"It is personal," Stan said, sharply. "This was Gary's brother. Our friend's brother. This is our town, and--"

"Don't make this a pissing contest," Kyle said, holding up his hands. "Stan, seriously. I thought you, of all people, would--"

"Well, you don't really know me anymore, Kyle, so you can stop making assumptions about what I will or won't do." 

"Whoa," Bebe said, laughing a little. "Hey, okay. Stan."

"You could have given us some advance warning," Stan said. "It's pretty fucking weird for you to just show up like this, like a stranger, and then proclaim yourself an expert on the indigenous population of South Park." 

"What is wrong with you?" Kyle asked, glowering now. "You've got bags under your eyes. Are you alright?"

"Hey," Bebe said, to Kyle this time. "It's been a long week. This isn't just a job for us, this is our community. You could tell your FBI buddies that showing a little respect might go a long way toward gaining our cooperation." 

"They have been respectful," Kyle said. "Okay, Mac was a little snotty toward Yates, and I talked to him about that. But this resistance from your Chief is pointless and immature. People are dead. You don't think we take that seriously? That I don't?" He glanced at Stan, his expression softening a little. Stan huffed and looked away.

"It's been a long week," Bebe said again, more tightly this time. "Just don't think you can show up and pick up where we've left off. People are scared. The Harrison murder just happened yesterday, and there's a lot of fear about what could happen next." 

"That's exactly why we're here," Kyle said. "To help. Do people know about the tongues?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"Kenny told us there's been some gossip about that," Bebe said. "But I'm not sure how it got out. We did let Craig and his father read the full police report about Ruby." 

"Craig," Kyle said, his hand going to his tie again. "Kenny. Jesus. It has been a while, I know. I'm sorry, ah. I haven't really kept in touch." 

"It's fine," Stan said, attempting to sound dismissive. "Do you want us inside? We can tell you what we know so far." 

"We can do that elsewhere," Kyle said. "Over coffee, maybe? I haven't had breakfast. I can leave Mac here to keep an eye on things while I interview you guys. If you're free?"

"Stan's free," Bebe said, and Stan cut her a very not-subtle outraged look. "What?" she said. "Chief asked me to stay on site until he gets back."

"He asked both of us to do that," Stan said, tightly. Bebe shrugged. 

"He said we should keep an eye on the FBI guys," she said. "If Kyle's going for breakfast, you'd better go along. To keep an eye on him, and he can interview you in the meantime. What?"

"I need to get my bearings," Kyle said. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the neighborhood, rolling his shoulders back. "It would help if I could get coffee with you, Stan," he said, still looking out toward the mountains. "You guys will be an invaluable resource to our investigation here. Nobody's denying that. With two organizations working together, we can cover more ground."

"You said this was your investigation now," Stan said. 

"I'm lead detective," Kyle said. "Specially appointed, and we've been given federal jurisdiction to take over the investigation, yes. FBI trumps local law enforcement." 

"I thought you didn't want a pissing contest." 

"I don't, that's just protocol! Jesus, why are you being such an asshole?"

"You guys go get coffee," Bebe said, pressing Stan toward Kyle, her hands on the small of his back. "Talk it out. Think of the relatives of the deceased," she said, flicking Stan's shoulder. "Don't let old -- whatever -- get in the way of all of us working together to find this killer. Kyle's right, Stan. The FBI can help. Don't be like Yates. This is about bringing a murderer to justice, not about anybody's pride."

"Oh, great speech," Stan mumbled, annoyed by her continued attempts to nudge him in Kyle's direction. He turned to give her an apologetic look, because he knew she was right. "I'll go," he said. "You let me know if you need me here." 

"Will do."

"Should I drive?" Kyle asked, patting his pockets. "Oh -- hang on, Mac's got the keys." 

"I'll drive," Stan said. He squared his shoulders and pulled out his own keys. "You guys share a car?" he said, muttering this as Bebe headed up toward the house. 

"FBI only wants to pay for one rental," Kyle said. Stan headed for his car, and Kyle fell into step beside him. Looking at the top of Kyle's head, which was so goddamn familiar that Stan's eyes stung a little, Stan wanted to retract every shitbag thing he'd just barked at Kyle, who was only trying to do his job. "You should see the crappy motel they've put us up in," Kyle said. "It's that old Travelodge out by the highway." Kyle looked up at Stan and smiled. "Separate rooms, at least," he said, as if Stan had asked out loud. He had wondered, of course, immediately. It was very annoying that Kyle could still read his mind.

"So you're coming from D.C.?" Stan asked as they approached his car. 

"No, no," Kyle said. "I haven't worked out of D.C. in over a year. I'm in Denver now."

"Really. Why?"

"Why not?" Kyle gave Stan a look and walked around to the front passenger side of his squad car. He tried the door, but it was locked. 

"Legally, you should ride in the back," Stan said. "You know. Since you're not a cop." 

Kyle snorted. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. I could get in trouble. Dude, don't take it personally."

"Oh, god," Kyle said, mumbling, but he moved to the backseat.

Stan felt bad about putting him there, behind the steel grille that separated the front seats from the back, especially when Kyle was silent during the drive. Stan kept coming up with and rejecting ice breakers.

"How are your folks?" he finally asked. 

"You don't have to shout," Kyle said. "I'm right here." 

"I wasn't shouting." 

"You -- never mind. My parents are fine. They love New York. They want me to move up there, of course." 

"Will you?" 

"No. I missed Colorado. That's why I came back. Also, because they offered to promote me if I moved to Denver. It's a tough game in D.C., man. I was working myself sick out there." 

"So Colorado's good for your health?" Stan felt himself taking this as a kind of compliment, absurdly. Kyle smiled as if he could tell. 

"Good for my mental health," Kyle said. "So far, anyway. This is my first high profile case that doesn't involve drugs. Potentially high profile, I should say." 

"It might involve drugs," Stan said, then he remembered David Harrison and felt like an asshole. "Probably not, though. Ruby's tox screen was clean, and I'd be really surprised if Gary's brother was into -- anything. I mean, I'm sure he wasn't." 

"I read the initial profile of David this morning," Kyle said. "Have you, um. Is Gary still living here?"

"No. Craig isn't, either, but he came back for his sister's funeral. Me and Bebe got a drink with him the other night. He was really shaken. For Craig."

"Craig," Kyle said, again pronouncing this name as if he'd just been told that an extinct species prowled the streets of South Park. "What a nightmare for that family. And the Harrisons, my god. Are you still friendly with Gary?"

"I was when he lived here," Stan said. Kyle had always been jealous of his friendship with Gary Harrison, and he appreciated this question a great deal. "But I haven't talked with him much since he moved away. I suppose he'll be back, for. Jesus. The funeral."

"Is Kenny still the local mortician?" 

"Yep." 

"That's so weirdly fitting," Kyle said. "Though I can't really figure out why." 

"Mhm." Stan had always felt that way, too, in both senses. He'd forgotten how easy it was to talk to Kyle, even after yelling at him over nothing. "Sorry," he said as he pulled into the diner's parking lot. "For, like. Going off on you, before." 

"You look so tired," Kyle said, leaning toward the grille that separated them. "It must have been horrible, discovering a body. I saw bloody crime scenes back in D.C., and I've seen a few corpses in Denver, but. To be the one who, like. Walked in, who found them. God."

"I'm alright." Stan turned the car off and climbed out, realizing only after a few steps away from the vehicle that he hadn't released the auto locks on the backseat. He turned around and gave Kyle a sheepish grin. Kyle was staring grimly from the locked backseat, trying the door for the third time. "Sorry," Stan said when he'd hurried over to let him out. "Sorry, I don't usually, uh. Go for coffee with the perp." 

"Uh-huh," Kyle said. He stared up at Stan after he'd gotten out of the car, looking annoyed. "Why do I feel as though you just whisked me away from my own crime scene in cuffs?"

"Kyle, what the hell? This was your idea." 

"I know," Kyle said, walking toward the door. "You just. Never mind, ugh." 

Inside, the diner was more crowded than Stan usually saw it. The sun was up now, shaded by heavy cloud cover, and pre-work patrons were sipping coffee and forking eggs. The usual waitress gave Kyle and his tailored suit a long appraisal after handing them the menus.

"Bebe's not on shift?" she said when she poured Stan's coffee.

"She is," Stan said. "Just working on site, um. In the field, at the moment." 

"Down at the Harrison house?" The waitress made a mournful sound, bringing the coffee pot to her chest. She still hadn't filled Kyle's mug. "What in the hell is going on around here, Stan?" 

"That's what we're trying to find out," he said. He looked at Kyle's empty mug, and she filled it. "Don't worry. We've got help now, too, from Denver." 

"It's that serious?" Her eyes went wide as if this news was the furthest thing from a comfort.

"We'll nip it in the bud," Stan said, and he wanted to groan when he heard himself sounding so glib about two violent deaths. "I mean. Don't worry."

"You said that already, but I'm worried as hell. No offense to law enforcement, but I won't sleep well until somebody's caught for this. You boys know what you want?"

Stan ordered pancakes and bacon. Kyle asked for scrambled eggs and toast, then called the waitress back to ask for bacon as well. He put a lot of cream in his coffee, no sugar.

"I read this news story about an implant diabetics can get to regulate their insulin," Stan said. He could feel his face coloring as he spoke, but Kyle was staring down into his milky coffee, stirring it up. "Thought of you," Stan muttered, and he drank too soon from his mug, burning his tongue. 

"I read that, too," Kyle said. "I don't think it's for me. Anyway, Stan." Kyle looked up then, and the color of his eyes seemed too brilliant for the florescent-lit diner and its greasy surfaces. Ostentatious, almost. "How are you?" Kyle asked, softly. "How are your kids?"

"They're good. Wayne just turned thirteen." He started to mention the arrest, then stopped himself. "I got divorced," he said instead, staring Kyle straight on to judge his reaction. Kyle nodded and blew into his coffee cup. 

"I know," he said. 

"How?"

"I, oh. I guess I looked at Lola's Facebook page. Since you don't have one. I do wonder how you're doing, sometimes."

"You and Lola are Facebook friends?" 

"No, but she, um. Her public profile shows her relationship status, so. Anyway, are you seeing anybody?" Kyle asked, and now he was the one speaking too loudly, turning red across the cheeks. 

"A couple people," Stan said, and he laughed at himself for referring to the Kevins this way, imagining how Kyle would react if he knew who Stan's latest conquests were.

"People?" Kyle said, raising his eyebrows, and Stan's heart dropped into his stomach so fast that he almost threw up right there at the table. He hadn't meant to say it like that. He had forgotten, sort of, somehow, that Kyle didn't know he slept with men. It had always been his default to assume Kyle already knew everything about him. All the important stuff, anyway. 

"How about you?" Stan said, and he knew he was showing his hand just by avoiding the question. Kyle's face was frozen into a kind of pre-shock, and he didn't seem to have heard the returned question. "Hmm?" Stan said. "You dating anybody in Denver?"

"No -- nobody." Kyle frowned and sat back. He drank from his coffee. "Hmm," he said, judgmentally. 

"Don't 'hmmm' me. How about that Mac guy, he in love with you yet?"

"Yet!" Kyle guffawed and thunked his coffee cup down so hard that some nearly sloshed out. "He's straight, for one thing. Yet." Kyle was smiling now, and Stan hoped he was pleased enough with that compliment not to be cruel and ask about Stan's sexual partners or the genders thereof. "A lot's changed," Kyle said. "Around here, it seems."

"Not so much as you'd think. Did you read Ruby's profile, too?" Stan was glad when the food arrived to accompany this subject change.

"I did," Kyle said, nodding slowly. "I would have guessed her a random selection based on her looks, age, the fact that she's a woman living alone, but the second victim is virtually opposite. Married, male, fair-haired. Ruby was a natural red head." 

Stan caught himself wanting to reach across the table and place his hand over Kyle's in some kind of weird protective gesture, in defense of imperiled natural red heads. Kyle sighed. 

"Poor girl," he said. "Anyway, the only thing they have in common is their age range. Mid to late twenties. That's not much." 

"And they both had brothers in our grade," Stan said, realizing this as he spoke. Kyle's interested frown mirrored his own. "Shit," Stan said. "You think that means something?"

"It could." Kyle whipped out his phone and started thumb typing. 

"Are you texting MacKenzie?" Stan asked, annoyed. Kyle snorted, still typing. 

"No," he said. "I'm making a note to myself. Hey, good thinking, Stan. But what could that mean?"

"Hell if I know. Probably nothing. Seems like a coincidence." 

"No, this killer is specifically motivated by something. The tongues tell you that much, and taking the risk of choosing two victims in a very small town, over a short period. This was all planned out -- my guess is that our suspect is on a timetable that's probably been years in the making. Wow, okay. Let's think." 

Kyle tossed his phone down on the table and began shoveling eggs in his mouth. He looked excited, his eyes lighting up and looking less ostentatious now, alive with questions unasked and unanswered. Stan forked pancakes into his mouth to hide a stupid grin. This wasn't a game, or a charming high school reunion. This was work, the important kind, and it would stay that way until Kyle disappeared back into the city. 

"Can't believe you've been in Denver for a year," Stan said, unable to hold it in. Kyle shrugged. 

"I thought about calling you when I saw that your marriage was, uh. Breaking up. But I thought I'd be the last person you'd want to hear from." 

Stan didn't refute that. Kyle had never supported his decision to get married. He had never forgiven Stan for getting Lola pregnant in the first place, and when he heard that Stan was going to make a go of being a husband as well as a father he put an invisible but powerful force field between them and gave Stan no opportunities to catch more than the occasional distant glimpse of him once it was in place.

"Anyway," Kyle said, pointedly. He drank some more coffee, picked up a piece of bacon and sighed. "I shouldn't eat this," he said, and then he did. 

"Who else has younger siblings?" Stan asked. "Of the boys who were in our grade?"

"Well, me," Kyle said. "But hopefully Ike is safe in Switzerland." 

"He's -- yeah?"

"Yeah, he got a grant, he's a really big deal." Kyle rolled his eyes and ate more bacon. "I'm surprised you haven't come across articles about his research, it's--"

"Oh, god," Stan said, dropping his fork. "Kenny -- Karen." 

"Call him," Kyle said, and he grabbed his napkin, balling it up in his fist. "I mean. She's probably fine, but. Couldn't hurt."

"Right." 

Stan grabbed his phone and dialed Kenny's number. There was no answer, unsurprisingly; Kenny did his work at night, unless he was hosting a funeral at the parlor, and he slept during the day. Karen had just started grad school in Boulder, and she commuted there from South Park, where she still lived with Mrs. McCormick. Their house wasn't far from the apartments were Ruby was killed. 

"Kenny," Stan said, when his voicemail picked up. "It's Stan, look. We realized something about the victims of the two murders. Gary and Craig were in the same graduating class in high school -- ours. Their younger siblings were both killed. It might be nothing, but I wanted to give you a heads up, because, Karen. I'll head over to her place and give her a courtesy visit, um. Don't worry." 

"Should we go?" Kyle asked when Stan hung up. 

"Yeah," Stan said, and he waved for the check. "I mean. It's probably fine--"

"Unlikely that two would be killed in a twenty-four hour period," Kyle said. He looked less excited now, more nervous.

"Fuck, except for -- the numbers." Stan hopped up, and Kyle did, too. "Sorry," Stan called when he met the waitress' eyes, headed for the door. "I've got an emergency call, put that on my tab." 

"Oh, lord," she said, standing behind the counter with the coffee pot. "Not another one?"

"No," Stan said, but he could tell by the expressions of everyone in the diner, all of them suddenly staring at him, that this wasn't convincing.

"What numbers?" Kyle asked when they jogged to the car. 

"On their chests," Stan said. "Ruby had three horizontal slashes. Michael had a horizontal slash on his throat and stomach, but the one across his chest was diagonal. Making a kind of number two, maybe, I thought." 

"Jesus," Kyle said. "I noticed the difference in the pictures, but I didn't see David's wounds as a two."

"No, hey," Stan said when Kyle went for the backseat. "Fuck that. Sit up front, with me."

Stan put his siren on, and they were silent on the ride to Karen and Carol's house. Stan couldn't have concentrated on even the smallest of talk; he was praying in a kind of mental gibberish, the start of one desperate prayer tripping over the end of the last one. He couldn't remember the last time he'd prayed for anything, unless those fumbling seconds before he heard that Wayne was at the police station and not the hospital counted. He cut the siren when they turned onto Karen's street, and laughed out loud with relief when he saw Carol taking out the garbage, wearing a tank top and a pair of sweatpants with BRONCOS printed on the ass. 

"Looks like everything's okay," Stan said, slightly breathless as he parked near the curb. Kyle glanced over at him with that pitying expression again. 

"Oh," Kyle said. "You really thought--? But we should check and see if she's home." 

"Right," Stan said, and he cut the engine. Carol was scowling at them from the end of the driveway, still holding the bag of trash. She had never liked cops and wasn't easy to deal with.

"What do ya'll want?" she asked when they approached. She was addressing Stan, but turned to frown at Kyle when they got closer. "Oh, hey," she said. "I remember you." She gasped and dropped the trash bag, clapping her hands over her mouth. Stan could seen Kyle flinch; he was probably thinking of the germs. "Shit, no!" Carol said. "Something's happened to Kenny, hasn't it?"

"No, no," Stan said. "We just wanted to check on Karen. Is she home?"

"Check on -- well, yeah, she's home, she's gettin' ready to drive to class. What do you want with her?"

"We just need to talk to her," Kyle said, and he flashed his FBI badge. "On official business." 

Stan snorted, and Kyle gave him a sideways glance. 

"She ain't done nothing wrong!" Carol said. "Why are ya'll harassing us? I'm clean since Stuart moved out, ask anybody!" 

"Nobody's in trouble," Kyle explained while Stan went toward the house, still unsettled. Horrible images had been flashing through his mind on the drive over, despite his praying. He knocked on the door and let out his breath when Karen answered right away, frowning. 

"Stan?" she said. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Stan said, beaming. He wanted to hug her, his fear about Kenny and Kevin crumpling with grief receding. "Hey, okay. You're alright." 

"Why shouldn't I be?" She frowned more deeply when Kyle appeared at Stan's shoulder. "What's Kyle doing here? Mom?" 

"They say everything's fine," Carol said. She pushed around Stan and into the house, giving him an unwelcoming look when she stood behind Karen. "But they won't tell me just what in the hell they're doing here." 

"We're investigating two homicides," Kyle said. Stan noticed that his voice changed, just slightly, when he was in FBI mode. It was a bit flatter, less excitable. "We made the connection just now that the victims both had brothers who graduated with us, in our class. It's a long shot, but the only real connection we've made so far. Well, Stan made the connection," he said, his FBI voice faltering slightly. Stan shrugged. 

"We were just brainstorming," Stan said. "Trying to think of anyone else in our grade who had younger siblings. Kenny's name came up, so we wanted to check on you, make sure you're safe. And you might, uh. Take extra precautions until we figure out what's going on with these murders. Who did them, I mean -- until we catch the killer." 

"Jesus Christ," Karen said, her eyes bugging out. "What am I supposed to do? Why would they want to kill me?" Her eyes fogged up. "Ruby was my friend," she said. "But I haven't spoken to David Harrison in years."

"I could be totally off base with this," Stan said. "But is it possible for you to avoid being alone for the next few days? I don't know if I have enough grounds to get an officer detail assigned as your bodyguard, but--"

"Whoa, what?" Karen scoffed. "You're seriously saying that I should be on the lookout for someone who wants to murder me? What the fuck!" Tears were brimming in her eyes now, and Stan could see her trembling when Carol put her arms around her, shushing her. 

"There's no need for alarm at this stage," Kyle said. "Just caution. Particularly since you were friends with one of the victims. I'm, um. I'm very sorry for your loss, by the way."

"What are you doing here?" Karen asked, and she sobbed once before clearing her eyes. "I thought you moved away."

"I did. I'm here with the FBI. We're treating this as a serial killer case."

"Oh my god!" Karen turned into her mother's arms and wept, hiding her face. Carol glared at Kyle, then Stan.

"What the hell do you mean to do, coming here and telling her this? You'll give the girl a nervous breakdown!" 

"Maybe Kenny could accompany her to her classes for a few days," Stan said, feeling like an idiot. Carol scoffed.

"Kenny's up to his ass in funerals this week, no thanks to ya'll!"

When they left, Stan felt chastised and winded, and the feeling didn't dissipate when he was back in his squad car with Kyle in the passenger seat. Stan couldn't help but stare. In his early days at the Academy, he'd envisioned Kyle as his ideal partner, though they hadn't spoken in years. Where ideal partners were concerned, visions of Kyle tended to pop up, typically unwelcome and often without logical explanation. 

"Well," Kyle said. "That was probably ridiculous. Certainly it wasn't protocol. See, this is what I feared. I'm back in my hometown and already I'm behaving like an overly emotional teenager." 

"You mean by listening to my stupid theory," Stan said, and he started the car.

"No," Kyle said. He groaned. "Maybe we shouldn't work together too closely. You get me -- worked up, you always have." 

"Roger that," Stan said, gripping the wheel with both hands. "I'll be sure to stay out of your way from here on out." 

"Oh, stop.” Kyle was quiet for a long time, staring out the window, and Stan knew him well enough, even now, to await the forthcoming explosion. “God!” Kyle said, shouting, when he apparently couldn't hold it back any longer. “You know, I've really missed you, in some ways? But I haven't missed these disorienting goddamn mood swings of yours. You're run so hot and cold, it makes me dizzy!”

Stan said nothing, feeling disoriented himself. On one hand, it was electrifying to be able to talk frankly with Kyle again, and Stan was so thankful that Kyle wasn't closed off like he had been last time they met. On the other hand, he thought it was pretty goddamn ironic and so typical of Kyle to accuse him of being hot and cold after sitting in icy silence until he couldn't stop himself from exploding with anger. 

“Maybe you're right,” Stan said. “About working together. I don't want to complicate things or get in the way. You drive me up the damn wall, too.” 

Kyle scoffed and turned back to the window. When they parked at the crime scene, it seemed the FBI had gotten their way: only agents in FBI windbreakers were on the lawn, the police cordoned off to the area near the road block. Stan couldn't see Bebe or Yates, and he wasn't sure if he should stay or report to headquarters. Kyle climbed out of the car, and Stan fully expected him to storm off without another word, because that was his style. Instead, he poked his head back in and gave Stan a look that was equal parts stubborn and pleading. Stan almost whimpered, because it was painful to see Kyle look so young while he had that grownup hair. 

“That looks good on you,” Kyle said. He shut the door and headed away, toward the house. Stan was left reeling, at first assuming that Kyle was talking about Stan's grownup hair, but he wore it the same way he always had. He looked down at himself and realized Kyle had been referring to his police uniform. Heat pooled in Stan's gut and spread downward. He bent over the steering wheel, craning his neck to see Kyle's ass as he walked uphill toward the Harrison house. 

“Fuck,” Stan said, the warmth creeping along the insides of his thighs and solidifying into arousal that was powerful the way that the oldest magic was in fairy tales, the kind of thing that could shift the whole universe sideways if the right words were uttered by the right tongue. Kyle had missed him. He'd said so, straight off, and had couched it in criticism that was intimate enough to make Stan's bones ache. 

Stan radioed the station, and he could tell just from his conversation with the operator that things were tense there. She gave him orders to report to a minor traffic accident near the highway, and his remaining hours on shift were a tiring combination of directing traffic and doing paperwork. At the station, the Chief had closed himself into his office, and Stan got the feeling he might have passed out with his head on his desk. Stan was ready to do so himself toward the end of the shift. 

His cell phone rang as he was heading toward his car, planning to head home and crawl into bed. It was Kenny calling.

"Got your message," Kenny said. "Karen's here with me now, at the parlor. She skipped class today. You guys really freaked her out." 

"Sorry," Stan said.

"No, it's okay. I'd rather have her be paranoid than clueless and in danger. You really think. Shit, you think this is something to do with younger siblings from our class?"

"I don't know, it's just what Ruby and David have in common. The only real thing we've come up with so far. Is there anyone else we need to warn? I couldn't think of another guy with younger siblings." 

"Well, Kyle." 

"Yeah, but Ike's living in Europe these days, apparently. Doing science, or whatever." 

"Uh-huh. I talked to him just now."

"Ike?"

"No, Stan. Kyle, I talked to Kyle."

"Oh. Fuck, Kenny-- you didn't tell him about the Kevins? Did you?"

"What?" Kenny laughed. "No, your fuck buddies didn't come up. Are you high?"

"No, I'm not high! I'm just coming off shift. Jesus, just. Don't tell him anything about me. I mean, I think he might have guessed, but. We saw each other, did he tell you?"

"Yeah. He said you seemed kind of unwell." 

"Jesus, that asshole-- he took me totally off guard! And I'm just, like, tired, okay, it's been a long week." Stan rolled his eyes at himself and leaned against his car, feeling almost faint with exhaustion that was still threaded through with the adrenaline rush that seeing Kyle had brought on. 

"Anyway, I figured we should round the whole gang up tonight," Kenny said. "For old times' sake. Bebe's in. Are you?"

"The gang, what. And Kyle?"

"Yeah, the three of us and Kyle. I figured inviting Cartman wouldn't go over well with anyone, and Craig hasn't returned my call. But hey, Bebe said Nicole might come. She's still in town, reporting on the murders." 

"Hmm. Where is this happening?"

"Bennigan's, dude! I'll drive Karen over to Kevin's place on the way, have him takeover the bodyguard duty for the night. I'll make sure he doesn't smoke." 

"Good luck with that. Oh, god, look. I think Clyde's back in town. Don't let him and Kevin -- his Kevin -- get wind of this little reunion, whatever you do." 

"Of course I won't, those guys are the worst. So you're coming?"

"Yeah," Stan said, groaning. "What time?" 

"Eight o'clock. Weird to have Kyle here again, huh?"

"That's an understatement. See you tonight."

Stan drove home in a fog, wondering why he'd agreed to an evening of socializing with the old gang when it sounded more or less like torture. He was pretty sure it was entirely because Kyle had said he looked good in his uniform, which wasn't fair. He thought about going over to Kevin McCormick's place to blow off some sexual tension, but he knew it wouldn't work, and Kevin was probably asleep. 

When he got home, he took off his gun belt and uniform shirt and flopped into bed still wearing his pants and undershirt. He grabbed a pillow and hugged it, burying his face in downy softness and trying not to think about Kyle. As he was drifting off he realized he hadn't set an alarm to wake him for the trip to Bennigan's, but he rightly predicted that nightmares would startle him out of sleep before long. The one that woke him was about the front yard at David Harrison's house. Stan was digging madly, through the lawn and into the soil below. At first he seemed to have a shovel, but eventually he realized he was digging with his bare, bloody hands. He was screaming, or trying to, because someone was trapped down there and he was pretty sure it was Kyle, a natural red head. The killer was going after red haired people. David's murder was purely a diversion tactic, and Stan was sure of it. He kept screaming at the many people who were standing around the hole that he was frantically digging -- other cops from his department, strange cops, random townspeople, and some FBI types who were wearing sunglasses, though it was dark outside. They only stared at him with vague concern, nobody offering to help. Stan's throat was raw as he tried to scream louder, harder, and finally he realized they couldn't hear him because he didn't have a tongue. 

He woke in his dark bedroom, a sizable puddle of drool on his pillow. His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding. He might have actually screamed; no one was home to hear him. He scrambled for his phone to check the time and was disappointed to see that there was still an hour before he was due to meet Kenny and the others at Bennigan's. He didn't particularly feel like being alone, or like he would be able to get back to sleep.

Stan put the light on his bedside table on and rolled onto his back. He took some deep breaths and stared at the ceiling, trying to calm his racing heart. His bedroom was drafty, and he could feel that the temperature had dropped more dramatically than it had the night before. There was a popping sound in the distance, somewhere out in the neighborhood. It wasn't loud enough to be gun fire or cheerful enough to be fireworks. When it stopped, Stan closed his eyes and spread his legs, shifted his hips. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly. He was starting to get an erection, the adrenaline-fueled fear from his dream morphing into adrenaline-fueled arousal. It was strange how smooth the transition felt. He was thinking about Kyle, letting himself sink into the old, bad habit of wondering where Kyle was just then, what he was doing, and if he was wishing Stan was there with him.

He always thought of the summer before their senior year of high school as when things changed, but they had actually been changing all along, every year. There was never a static stretch in his and Kyle's closeness; since the day they met it had always been increasing exponentially, until one of them altered things enough to require a renegotiation of their friendship. That had only happened twice: when Stan turned ten years old and was so depressed that he was finally diagnosed as clinical, and again when they were fourteen years old and Kyle came out to Stan on Valentine's Day. 

It wasn't a love confession directed at Stan, but Stan had arrogantly assumed that it might as well have been. They were in Stan's bedroom, talking after school. Kyle was clearly upset and pretending not to be. Stan kept needling him, gently, to say what was bothering him. Stan had been in therapy all throughout middle school, which was a secret that only Kyle knew, and he had been told, a lot, that talking about things helped. He wasn't sure that was true and had been overjoyed when his mother let him whittle his appointments to once a month for the purposes of having his antidepressant prescription refilled, but he knew Kyle well enough to understand that he kept things pent up until he burst, and that something was about to break free. Stan wanted it to happen then and there, in the quiet of his bedroom with a heavy snowfall gliding steadily past his window, Kyle curled into a half-moon on his bed and already sniffling a little. 

"You don't want to hear this," Kyle kept saying, avoiding Stan's eyes. "You'll be sorry that you have to deal with it, too." 

"Dude, it's okay if you're gay," Stan had said, joking. "I don't care." 

"Well," Kyle said, staring down at his hat, which he'd been worrying in his hands since he'd flopped onto Stan's bed. "I want you to care, because you're my best friend and it's important to me that you know exactly who I am."

He had said all of that in a mumbled rush, and it hit Stan in slow motion. Stan had assumed Kyle was going to lament about something Cartman had recently done and confess that it was still bothering him. At school, Kyle had gotten good at pretending that nothing got in past his cool exterior anymore, but Stan still saw all the cracks and meltdowns, and Cartman still had the ability to work a merciless chisel into Kyle's weak spots. 

Stan had sat on the bed staring at Kyle after his confession, waiting to figure out what he should do or say about this. When tears streaked down Kyle's cheeks, Stan leaned over to pour himself around Kyle in a kind of shell-like hug, and he stayed that way while Kyle cried. Kyle didn't sound sad, just relieved and very tired, as if he'd finally set down something very heavy that he'd been carrying for years.

"It's okay," Stan had whispered, probably a hundred times. "I'm here, you're fine, everything's okay." He said this while privately praying that Kyle wouldn't try to kiss him. Stan hadn't cared much about the idea of having sex with anybody since he started on his medication, and he didn't want to break Kyle's heart. He wanted to put it back together, always, but not with his lips. 

After that, Stan was the proud steward of Kyle's big secret, and eventually it felt like his secret, too, a special bond they had forged that night with a long, platonic hug. All throughout high school, Kyle confided in Stan about all matters relating to his sexuality: he'd tried watching gay porn and found it mostly upsetting, he'd been hurt by the f-word even when it wasn't directed at him, the erotic Avengers slash fiction he read online was mostly sub-par. He never confessed a crush or a kiss, and Stan assumed those things were reserved for him, though he also didn't want to confront how he might actually feel about them. He spent his first two years of high school in a state of pleasant semi-numbness, and only when he turned sixteen did he start questioning if his medication was right for him anymore. He'd taken to rushing through his appointments with his psychiatrist, nodding along and saying everything was normal, that he was feeling fine. He was, but he was also feeling a little disconnected, maybe too perennially fine to really be living. With his mother's permission, and under her careful observation, he decided to try to get through his junior year without medication. 

He had been weaned off under the supervision of his psychiatrist, and even in the first few weeks with no medication at all, there wasn't a dramatic sea change. Certain experiences returned to him gradually, like boats spotted in the distance that slowly drew close enough for Stan to read the lettering on their hulls. He bottomed out a few times, told his mom and Kyle about it and was able to get through these as bad days instead of an enduring emotional flat-line. He started speaking up more in class, getting angrier about the things in the news that made Kyle angry, and smoking with Kenny when life stressed him out. He had random boners again, and explosively intense orgasms. When the only thing he could get off to were his fantasies about Kyle, he considered it a side effect of two years of being indifferent to sex while listening to Kyle reminisce about his personal gay porn habits and masturbatory concerns. It didn't seem like a big deal, because Stan still enjoyed looking at girls and regularly wanted to suck on tits. He liked the way girls smelled, and was turned off by dark body hair on guys. Kyle's body hair wasn't dark; it was actually kind of pretty, Stan realized, like a red-gold sheen that made him glow. The hair on Kyle's head smelled like autumn, somehow, and his skin was like creamy milk. Stan arrived at these conclusions slowly, at first with wonder and eventually with growing anxiety about what it all meant. As the summer after junior year began he was feeling like himself again, and also starting to wonder if he really knew who that was anymore.

He sat up in bed before he could get started on wallowing in his memories of that summer, how the whole universe seemed to have been nudging him toward Kyle the way Bebe had earlier that day. He checked his phone again and saw that he had time for a shower before the get-together. There were no new messages, which presumably meant no new murders. Twice, in the shower, he thought he heard his phone ringing and poked his head out from behind the curtain, but he was only imagining things. He jerked himself off with white-knuckled determination, thinking only of porn videos he'd seen. His orgasm was particularly fleeting, and it didn't do much to ease his jumpiness after a long, weird day that was probably about to get weirder.

Choosing an outfit was daunting, and all of Stan's clothes looked unimpressive compared with his uniform. He picked out a blue and black flannel shirt that Lola used to say made his eyes look nice and put it on over a pair of jeans that were just tight enough to show a bit of bulge. It had occurred to him before that he had never been on a real date; he and Lola were fuck buddies during his senior year, then she was pregnant, and since the divorce he'd just been sneaking around with the Kevins for sex, not taking them to the movies. His lack of dating history had depressed him in the past, but now it felt like a death sentence: he had sleep-walked past his chance for romantic love, first during his over-medicated adolescence and then during his friendly but passionless marriage, and now he was in his thirties, showcasing his bulge for a weeknight group dinner because a boy he'd once masturbated to would be there.

"Pathetic," he said, looking at his reflection, and he instantly felt bad. 'Don't be cruel to yourself' was an old lesson from therapy. Stan smoothed down his shirt, took a deep breath and shook his head. "Nah," he said. "You'll be fine." And then he felt pathetic again. 

He made to Bennigan's at exactly eight o'clock, and was relieved to see that he wasn't the first one there. Bebe and Nicole were at a table to the left of the bar, waving him over.

“Hey there!” Nicole said, getting up to hug him in greeting. “How are you holding up?” she asked. 

“I'm doing okay,” Stan said. He took the seat beside hers, across from Bebe. There were three other chairs at the table, and Stan wondered if Kenny had convinced Craig to come after all. “You both look pretty,” Stan said when Bebe gave him a tired smile.

“You, too,” Bebe said. “Or handsome, I guess. Stan isn't a pretty man, really, is he?”

“Mhmm,” Nicole said, leaning over to examine Stan's face. “Nah, more handsome. Seriously, Stan you look great.” 

“Did Kenny tell you that Kyle is coming?” Bebe asked, and Stan felt as if she was accusing him of looking great solely to impress Kyle. Stan nodded and drank from a glass of melty ice water that a bus boy had set down for him. 

“Who else is coming?” Stan asked. 

“Nobody, as far as I know,” Bebe said. “Just him and Kenny.” 

“Bebe was just telling me that Token is still out in California,” Nicole said. “But Kyle has moved back?”

“Not back,” Stan said. “Just to Denver.”

“Too bad you can't have both of your old flames here at the reunion,” Bebe said, and Nicole laughed.

“I only ever had the one date with Kyle,” she said. “And Cartman busted that right up. Is he still around?”

“Yes,” Bebe said, groaning. “He owns a car dealership. Ironically, he's going to lose his license if he gets another DUI this year.” 

They ordered drinks and talked about the murders. Stan found himself tuning the conversation out, tired of pouring over the gory details. He kept his eye on the restaurant's front door, turning halfway to check every time he heard it open. Kenny arrived next, grinning on his way to the table and looking carefree as ever, despite the warning Stan had given him about Karen. He supposed it was kind of a stupid theory, really.

“Where's Kyle?” Stan asked when Kenny had taken a seat next to Bebe, ordered a beer, and slung his arm around the back of Bebe's chair. 

“He's coming,” Kenny said. “He texted me to say they would be late. Held up with work and so forth.”

“They?” Stan said. 

“Yeah, he wants to bring his partner, introduce him to everyone.” 

“What – that FBI asshole?” Stan was fuming already, an angry heat fogging up around the collar of his shirt. “Why?” 

“It does seem strange,” Bebe said. “The guy was a real prick to us earlier.” 

“Maybe he wants to apologize,” Kenny said, and Stan scoffed, annoyed by his sunny magnanimity. “What?” Kenny said. “I don't think it's weird for Kyle to want us to meet his boyfriend.”

“It's not his boyfriend!” Stan said, too loudly. “He said, I asked him. He said that guy is straight.” 

“Yeah, Kenny,” Bebe said. “I don't think they're together.” 

“Oh, I just assumed,” Kenny said, shrugging. “When he said partner, and that he wanted to bring him to dinner.”

“Call him up and tell him not to bring that guy,” Stan said. “That's stupid. It makes no sense. This is-- we're all old friends, here, and he's--”

“Stan,” Bebe said. “Calm down.” 

“I'm not-- I am calm! You just said so yourself, it's a dumb fucking idea.” 

“Hey, man,” Kenny said. “Drink some of your beer. You're all wound up.”

“He hasn't been sleeping,” Bebe said. “He won't let me lend him some sleeping pills to take the edge off, even after everything we've been through this week.”

“I don't like pills,” Stan muttered, and he gulped some beer. He checked the doorway as he did. It had become crowded with irritable-looking families who were waiting for tables. 

Stan was unable to pay attention to the chit chat at the table, except when they debated whether or not to order or wait for Kyle and his partner to arrive. Stan insisted that he didn't care, though he was hungry, and angry, and hurt. Kyle would have to know that bringing that guy would hurt Stan's feelings, eat into their time together, and make everything between them more awkward. Apparently he didn't care. 

Kyle and MacKenzie finally arrived forty minutes later, after the complimentary bread basket had been emptied and replenished three times. Stan had finished two beers and was working on a third. He knew that he should act nonchalant instead of glowering down at his crumb-filled plate, but he'd always had a hard time hiding his feelings around Kyle.

“I'm so sorry,” Kyle said, sitting beside Bebe. MacKenzie took the seat across from him, next to Stan. “It's just been a whirlwind,” Kyle said. “Trying to get caught up and dealing with the police chief throwing roadblocks in our way.”

“He's a spiteful little bastard,” MacKenzie said, though Yates wasn't more than an inch or two shorter than him and was by no means thin. “Must be a pain in the ass to work for the guy.”

“Actually,” Bebe said, before Stan could blurt something in protest. “He's great. It's just been hard on the whole town, seeing this happen and knowing that the killer is still at large. I guess you wouldn't understand,” she said. “If you're not from a small town.” 

Stan wanted to high five her. He gave Kyle a cursory glance, noting that he was still wearing the same suit and tie from earlier. He had taken a roll and was buttering it. 

“I'm from Rhode Island,” MacKenzie said. “I know about small towns. I hope you'll all trust that we're here to help, not to get in the way. I'm following Kyle's lead on this case, since he knows the terrain.” 

“I've made a lot of notes today,” Kyle said. “And I still need to properly interview you and Bebe,” he said, looking at Stan, who shrugged. 

“My hunches haven't amounted to much so far,” he said. 

“But we've only just begun!” Kyle said, huffing. “These investigations can take years.” 

“Well, I guess you'd better move back to South Park, then,” Stan said. Awkward silence followed, and Stan felt like an idiot. He drank from his beer and decided not to order another. When he'd set his glass down he peeked at Kyle, wanting to offer a non-verbal apology, but Kyle didn't look up from his menu. 

As they were placing their orders, Stan saw someone approaching the table and withheld a groan when he realized it was Kevin Stoley-Donovan. Clyde was trailing behind him, looking confused as usual. Kevin looked angry. 

“Ah, hey,” Kenny said. “Kev, Clyde. How's it going?”

“Fine,” Kevin said, surveying the faces at the table. “Nicole, wow. Long time no see.” 

“Heya,” she said. “I'm in town for the serial killer story. Just found out I'm staying in the same dump as the FBI agents, so I guess I'll be well-protected.” 

“Uh-huh.” Kevin stared down at Stan, who was overwhelmed by too many other minor ordeals to care much about Kevin being upset that he wasn't invited to this mini-reunion. “Clyde just got back from a major book tour,” Kevin said, pulling Clyde forward. “We're here to celebrate his new contract with Dutton. That's the children's book division of Penguin,” Kevin said, giving Stan another hateful look.

“Are you still writing about talking bananas?” Bebe asked. 

“It's a talking banana, singular,” Clyde said. “His name is Theodore. He's the only one of his kind.” 

“Theodore, ugh,” Kyle said. “Why did you name it that?”

“Why not?” 

“That's Cartman's middle name,” Kyle said, muttering this into his wine glass before he drank from it. 

“We were talking about Cartman before you got here,” Nicole said. “Apparently he's still up to no good, endangering the public.” 

“Well,” Kevin said, loudly. “I guess we'll go find a table. Sorry to interrupt your gathering.” 

Stan saw Kenny trying to hold in his laughter until Kevin and Clyde were out of earshot, and that set Stan off, too. He laughed into his beer glass, shaking his head. 

“That was awkward,” Kenny said. 

“Why didn't you invite them?” Kyle asked. “I like Kevin.” 

“I didn't want to talk about Clyde's banana all night,” Kenny said. “Plus, well.” He glanced at Stan, and Stan wanted to kick him under the table, but MacKenzie would see if he did. “Anyway,” Kenny said. “Um, what were we talking about?”

“Cartman,” Kyle said, and he set his wine glass down hard. “And Nicole was mentioning that he's a public menace? I saw his record when we visited the station today. Five arrests for DUI? How are you people still letting him drive?”

“He spaces them out just enough,” Bebe said. “There's a statute of limitations--” 

“What were you doing looking at Cartman's criminal record?” Stan asked. Kyle scoffed. 

“Are you joking?” he said. “Until we have a better lead, he's my number one suspect.” 

“Cartman?” Stan laughed. “He's a drunken buffoon who can't even take a piss in public without making a scene and getting caught. If he murdered someone he'd probably pass out next to their corpse with blood all over his hands.” 

“Regardless,” Kyle said, beginning to get red. “He's a violent sociopath with a history of abusive behavior. That makes him worth looking into for this, or any other nefarious business that should happen within a hundred miles of him.” 

“Who did Cartman abuse?” Kenny asked. “Butters?”

Kyle drank from his wine glass and said nothing, his face very red now. Cartman had given Kyle hell when they were kids, but Stan wasn't sure that Kyle would want him to mention it. Kenny's mind had probably gone to Butters because he thought of domestic situations when he heard the word abuse, understandably. That didn't mean he'd forgotten what Kyle went through with Cartman when they were kids. 

“Seriously, dude,” Stan said, wanting Kyle to look at him again, or anyone. “Don't waste your time researching that idiot. He's a blight on society, sure, but he never got past murdering his stuffed animals.” 

“Well,” Bebe said. “There was the whole Tenorman thing, too.” 

“Right,” Stan said. “But that was before he started drinking. These days, I can't imagine him having the patience to plan anything other than his next trip to the liquor store.” 

“Okay,” Kyle said, standing. He threw his napkin on the table. “Just, no, okay. I have to leave. This was a bad idea.” He took out his wallet and began rifling through the billfold. His hands were shaking. 

“Kyle,” Stan said. “What--” 

“Brof-ski,” Mac said, not in protest but with a kind of gentle sympathy that made Stan boggle at him with disgust. Mac didn't seem to notice. He stood when Kyle threw ten dollars onto the table. 

“That should cover the wine,” Kyle said, still avoiding everyone's eyes. “Goodnight.” 

“Whoa, wait a second,” Kenny said. “What's the matter?”

Kyle walked away from the table, hurried toward the door and pushed through the throng of waiting families on his way out of the restaurant. Mac sighed and tossed his own napkin down beside Kyle's. 

“It's hard for him to be back here,” Mac said, his gaze skipping from person to person at the table, as if to pass the blame around. He locked eyes with Stan last. “Don't worry,” he said. “I'll make sure he's okay.” 

“What just _happened_?” Bebe asked, opening her palms on the table. “I don't understand.” 

“Don't worry about it,” Mac said. “We'll see you around, I'm sure, during the investigation. Kyle will be fine.” 

Mac turned and left. He didn't seem to be in a hurry, as if he knew Kyle was waiting for him outside, in their shared rental car. Stan wanted to get up, grab Mac, and tell him that he had some fucking nerve thinking he could decide if Kyle was fine or not. Nobody but Stan could ever know that, because Stan knew Kyle best.

Stan stayed in his seat, defeated by the awareness that he couldn't make that claim anymore. He finished his beer and ordered another. He'd have Kenny drive him home, or maybe back to Kenny's place, where Stan had a standing invitation to crash on the upstairs couch. Stan really didn't want to sleep above a morgue, but he'd rather do that than sleep alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Stan ended up on Bebe's couch instead of Kenny's, and he woke up early, shivering under a velvety throw blanket that wasn't doing much to keep out the cold. Kenny had stayed over, too, and Stan could hear the low rumble of his voice from Bebe's bedroom as he dressed to leave. Bebe's responses were brief and quiet; she was not a morning person. Stan had heard them having sex last night, and while it was the kind of thing that probably should have made him feel even more lonely, he didn't mind. He was beginning to wonder if he should discuss his recent problems with being alone when his mandatory counseling sessions began at work. So far he had been putting that off.

He pretended to be asleep when Kenny moved through the living room, not in the mood to talk. Kenny put his shoes on in the kitchen and left, locking the door behind him. Stan wasn't aware that Kenny still had a key to Bebe's apartment. He would grill Bebe about it later, or maybe he would just let it lie. Some people just couldn't manage to leave each other's orbit, and Stan was more jealous of their persisting connection than the sex he'd overheard last night.

He kept his face pressed against the couch cushions, eyes shut tightly, and wondered if Kyle had spent the night in MacKenzie's room at the Travelodge, leaning on him for friendly comfort. Stan had called Kyle three times after leaving the restaurant, and he had left one drunken voicemail message that he could only halfway remember. It was something about the night Stan drove Cartman home from Skeeter's, and what Cartman had mumbled about the dark woods around South Park. Stan was sure that his own mumbled recollection of that evening made even less sense, and hearing that voicemail would probably upset Kyle further. That seemed to be all Stan could do for Kyle anymore.

Stan tried not to think about what his life would be like if he had done things differently that summer, before the start of their senior year in high school. If things had been different between him and Kyle during the school year, he wouldn't have slept with Lola, and he wouldn't have his kids. He loved them so much that the thought was horrifying, but it still hurt to remember how easily he could have changed everything, how closely Kyle had orbited him that summer, and how Stan would have only had to stretch his fingertips out to close that last, ever-narrowing space between them. 

It had started in June. Kyle seemed to fall asleep in Stan's room almost every night, and they were old enough, and free enough without the burdens of homework, to do this without their parents caring or even noticing, half the time. They didn't even have summer jobs that year, though they talked vaguely about getting some a couple of times. Stan had finally gotten the new Zelda game, and it was their tradition to play through every iteration of Zelda together, taking turns as they muscled their Link through each fortress that stood in his way. This seemed to provide all the entertainment they would need, because when they weren't playing the game they were just lying around talking, laughing, and napping together. All of that was free, so they stopped even talking about getting jobs by the start of July.

The TV in Stan's bedroom that was connected to his game system was directly across from his bed, on top of his dresser. When they played games, Stan pushed the dresser up against the end of his bed so that he could mound pillows against the headboard and stretch out on his back while he played, Kyle beside him and waiting for his turn. The bed started to feel like their personal portal into the world on screen, and they often fell asleep there directly after playing, Stan curled toward the wall with Kyle's spine curved against his back. It was a twin bed, but Stan never felt cramped. He dreamed about the game a lot that summer, and in some of these dreams Kyle walked the world map with him, helping Stan keep an eye out for surprise attacks. It was always a relief to wake up and find the real Kyle there, huddled up next to him as if they were sharing a tent on the grassy plains outside the Hyrulian castle. 

When Stan woke up to the feeling of Kyle cuddled up against him some nights, he liked it. He'd always gotten high on making Kyle feel safe. He tried sliding his arms around Kyle, gently, so he wouldn't wake him, and he liked that, too. By the start of August they were rolling into each others arms as soon as the TV screen went dark, and sometimes they stayed up talking like that, Kyle's hand moving idly on Stan's bare back while Stan ran his fingers through Kyle's curls. Stan was always just waiting for Kyle to talk about it, or do something more, and when he didn't, it was a relief. Stan wasn't sure he wanted to suck on Kyle's tongue, and he was damn sure he didn't want to suck anybody's dick. They were just close, he decided. They were special, different but still mostly normal, and this was their secret, just like Kyle's sexuality felt like Stan's secret, too. He still masturbated to thoughts of Kyle in the shower, but it wasn't him fucking Kyle in his fantasies. It was some faceless, partially disembodied gay sex force that was making Kyle moan and come all over himself. Not Stan, personally.

On the morning when everything changed, Stan woke from a dream about the game that wasn't as pleasant as the usual ones. This one involved fire and swords clashing, blood. Before they fell asleep, he and Kyle had been working on the final dungeon, approaching the last boss. There was a drizzle of rain sliding down the window when Stan cracked his eyes open, but he could only hear it, couldn't see it. Kyle was filling his vision, shifting against Stan in nervous twitches and breathing little sighs onto Stan's face. Stan stayed still and allowed himself to take this in slowly, surprised but not alarmed to see that Kyle was so close. They didn't usually bump noses, but that was what Kyle was doing now, nudging Stan awake as he moved even closer, his eyelashes tickling Stan's cheek. He was smiling, so Stan smiled, too. 

"Do you want to?" Kyle asked, whispering. They were so close that Stan felt like the words had come not just from Kyle but from both of them, and he knew exactly what Kyle was asking. _Kiss me, Stan, do you want to kiss me?_

"What?" Stan said, though he understood perfectly. He turned red and stayed motionless, knowing that Kyle would see through his fake confusion. In hindsight, he would realize that the cruelest thing he'd done that morning was lie there, still pressed against Kyle, so that Kyle had to be the one who moved away. 

Kyle rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling, taking measured breaths through his nose. Just as Stan decided that he should do it, kiss him, and figure out what it meant about him and them and everything else afterward, Kyle sat up and pulled away. 

"I have to pee," Kyle said, mumbling. He left for the bathroom across the hall and was gone for a long time, almost half an hour. When he came back, the force field was already up. Kyle started 'interning' at his dad's office later that week, which became his perennial excuse not to hang out, and Stan never did beat that Zelda game.

For the lonely remainder of the summer, Stan felt broody and rejected as he constantly turned kissing Kyle over in his head like a coin. On one side everything was sweetness and excitement, the idea of the blankets on Stan's bed closing them into a cocoon that was more private than anything they had shared before. On the other was the idea of Kyle as his boyfriend, and the idea of himself as gay, which seemed like it would involve inviting the whole town into their cocoon. Stan knew Kyle wouldn't be okay with hiding for long, and this suspicion was confirmed when Kyle came out to everyone at school at the start of their senior year.

Though he was aware that it was absurd and unfair, Stan couldn't help feeling betrayed by Kyle's decision to come out without consulting him first. It was as if Kyle had taken the gift of his secret away from Stan and flung it to the masses. In an equally irrational way, Stan also felt exposed, and nervous that people would make assumptions about him based on Kyle's sexuality. Cartman made sure to do so, loudly, at the earliest opportunity. Stan had no problem with other people being gay, but the idea that his own attraction to not just Kyle but _men_ , generally, could have sneaked up on him during his medicated adolescence was not only alarming but felt incorrect. 

When Lola flirted with him in Chemistry lab, he decided to test his theory by asking her to hang out. He was excited when she agreed, a little anxious and uncomfortable on their date, but his cock was totally on board when they had sex in the backseat of her car. Everything about Lola was a relief, and even the boring stretches seemed to confirm that this was how love should feel: calm, settled, ordinary, and not like a dream about a video game. Even so, even in the darkest depths of Stan's denial, he never managed to fool himself that he was in love with her. 'In love' also didn't seem like an accurate way to describe his feelings for Kyle, which were mostly angry, hurt, and possessive, with a large portion of guilt heaped over everything.

"Breakfast?" Bebe called from the kitchen when Stan woke again, this time from hazy half-dreams about Kyle and that summer. He sat up and blinked at Bebe, wanting to go back to sleep with his memories and regrets cuddled up against him like company.

"I heard Kenny leave," Stan said when he walked into the kitchen, wondering what had become of his blue and black flannel. He was in his undershirt and jeans, shivering. Bebe was wearing a short, silky robe. She had full thighs and the kind of perfectly round ass that reminded Stan he was still attracted to women, too, though the newly exhilarating freedom of allowing himself to sleep with men had him tipping in that direction, lately. 

"Are you waiting for a play-by-play?" Bebe said, glancing at Stan when he stood there in silence near the kitchen table. "Yeah, Kenny was here last night. We had fun, so what?"

"Nothing, I. Look, I can't stand in judgment of anyone's fun, so." 

"That's right, you can't. Was it weird to see Kevin with Clyde last night?"

"No. I need to break it off with Kevin, he doesn't even like me. The McCormicks, though. They make for ideal fuck buddies." Stan felt bad for both Kenny and Kevin, saying it that way, though he'd only done so to see Bebe's reaction. She turned from the English muffin she was slicing and gave him a look. 

"Kenny's not in love with me," she said. "Nobody's getting their feelings hurt, here." 

"Okay." 

"I don't have to get married just because I'm in my thirties now. Marriage is not always the answer." 

"I know that, Jesus. But what-- What's the question that marriage is not the answer to? Why aren't you two, just, like. Together?"

"I don't know, Stan." Bebe turned back to her breakfast preparations, and Stan could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was about to let herself say something harsh. "Why were you never 'just' with Kyle? It's not always as simple as it looks from the outside."

Stan said nothing, because he still wasn't sure there was a concrete answer for why he didn't kiss Kyle that morning, and why he didn't run over to Kyle's house at any other time before Lola's pregnancy and sweep him off his feet. He didn't even regret how he handled things now, and not just because of the kids. If he'd actually made a move back then, he would have screwed things up between them even worse. 

"I was fucked up," Stan said. "Unstable, uh. You know I had to go back on Paxil when Wayne was a toddler." 

"What does that have to do with Kyle?" Bebe made an incredulous noise in the direction of her English muffin, her back still turned on Stan. "You're so weird about him," she said. "You always have been, and I didn't think it would happen again if he came back-- well, I never thought he would come back, but. It's like you want him riding in your pocket, but then you hate him for trying to climb in." 

"You are making zero sense," Stan said. 

"Whatever." Bebe popped the muffin into the toaster and turned to look at him. "Kyle seems fucked up, too. In some other way. What the hell was that about last night at the restaurant? You really don't know?"

"I really don't, Bebe. And he hasn't returned my calls." 

"Do you think he's onto something about Cartman?"

"Is that a serious question?"

"Well, he's not wrong! Cartman is capable of evil, certainly."

"Sure," Stan said, swallowing down a bad feeling about what happened last night. He dug his phone out to make sure, again, that Kyle hadn't called. "But it didn't _feel_ like Cartman at those crime scenes. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Bebe said. She sighed and got out two mugs for coffee. "You want some?" she asked.

"I do, thanks."

"Sorry I-- sorry. I don't mean to beat you up about Kyle." 

"Sorry I'm nosy about Kenny," Stan said, getting up to fetch the milk from her fridge. "If you're happy with things the way they are, that's great." 

"It's complicated," Bebe said, mumbling. "Do you want an English muffin?"

"Sure," Stan said. He bolted back to the table when he heard his phone ring, but it wasn't Kyle. "Fuck," he said when he saw the screen. "Gary's calling me."

"Gary -- Harrison?"

"Yeah."

"You'd better answer." 

"I know. Fuck, okay."

Stan walked into the other room and put the phone to his ear, bracing himself to confront Gary's grief. Though he'd never felt as close to Gary as he had to Kenny and Kyle, there was something about Gary that Stan had truly admired, and it had to do with the sincere and seemingly unbreakable cheer that his whole family represented. Now someone had thrown a brick through the placid surface of the Harrison family happiness, and it had taken one of them down with it, forever, to the muddy bottom.

"Gary," Stan said, breathing his name out like a kind of apology. "Hey." 

"Hi, Stan." Gary sounded tired but still warm, like he didn't want to spread his misery around. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm back in town and ready to help in any way I can."

"I'm so sorry," Stan said. "So sorry, Gary. We're going to catch this guy. This person. We've got, um. The FBI has come to help. You probably know that." 

"They've spoken to my father." Gary sighed. "And thank you for your sympathies. We've been praying with Melissa all morning, and the children. We know he's with God now. It's a comfort." 

"Yeah," Stan said, and he wished he were less groggy, more eloquent. "It's. I just can't believe this is happening."

"It's surreal," Gary said. "Even for South Park. I'm going to stay in town for a while, until Melissa decides what she wants to do. This is the children's home, but it's also where their father, ah." 

"Right. Jesus. Listen, while you're town, we should meet up. I'm sure you've got interviews scheduled with the FBI?" Stan thought of Kyle and hoped he would be gentle with Gary. Kyle had never liked him much. 

"They haven't asked to speak with me specifically," Gary said. "My father said the agent in charge of the investigation is called Broflovski. Any relation to Kyle?"

"It is Kyle, he's. Here, for now." 

"Oh, wow. I suppose I did know he'd joined the FBI. Well, that's a relief. He was always so smart. But yes, let's get together soon. I've missed you-- I hope you're well?"

"I'm okay. Just call me anytime you're free, I'd love to see you."

"I might be busy with the family until Saturday," Gary said. "That's the day we're having the funeral. Kenny has been very kind in helping with the arrangements this morning." 

"Good." So that was where Kenny was hurrying off to at the crack of dawn. "I'll come, um. Unless it's Mormons only?"

"Certainly not - you'd be welcome, Stan."

Stan walked back into the kitchen, again stuck on the idea that Craig and Gary had both returned to town because of the murder of a younger sibling. It wasn't something that should be discounted, but he couldn't make any sense of it beyond what it was on a its face: a small town, a coincidence. He saw his flannel shirt hanging on the back of a chair and pulled it on, still cold.

"Here," Bebe said, pushing a small plate with a buttered English muffin into Stan's hand. "How'd Gary sound?"

"Like he sincerely believes in heaven."

"Oh. Good." 

"I'm gonna eat this in the car," Stan said, transferring the muffin to a paper towel. "I want to see if I can drive the kids to school. What time is it?"

"Almost eight. See you later, on shift?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Kyle wants to interview us about the murders today," Bebe said. She held up her cell phone and gave Stan a sympathetic look. "He just texted me. Three o'clock." 

"Good." Stan checked his own phone, and there was still nothing from Kyle. "That's good, um. I'm glad he's feeling. Better, I guess?"

"Who can tell? Should be interesting."

Stan kissed her cheek and grabbed his jacket on the way out. The cold shocked him, and he closed his jacket around himself, wishing he hadn't left his car at Bennigan's. The walk was only a mile and a half, but he felt like an idiot, humping along the side of the road while cars passed him by. He kept waiting to see red hair in the passenger seat, Mac at the wheel, the car slowing down so they could both rightfully stare at him like he was a hungover wreck. He made it to his car without being spotted by them or anyone else he knew, as far as he could tell, and he called Lola while the car idled in the otherwise empty Bennigan's lot, the heat slowly starting to kick in. She told him it would be fine for him to drive the kids in, but he would have to hurry or they would be late. 

"Kyle's back in town," Stan said, not sure how sensitive she would be to this news. "For work, about the murders. He's with the FBI."

"Red haired Kyle?" she said. "From school?"

"Was there -- another Kyle?"

"Yeah, no, just. I don't know, he's someone from another lifetime."

"True," Stan said, though it didn't feel that way to him. It was more like he had returned to his previous and in some ways still more familiar lifetime, that brutal autumn and winter after the summer he spent in bed with Kyle and the video game controllers. 

The kids were coming out the door of Lola's house when Stan pulled into the driveway, Evan dressed in a puffy purple coat and Wayne wearing only a thin windbreaker. Stan didn't mention it when Wayne climbed into the backseat, Evan taking the front. He remembered what it was like to be thirteen, a native Coloradan, and to need to pretend for as long as you could that the cold wasn't bad enough for real winter gear yet.

"Why are you driving us?" Wayne asked.

"Because it's safer," Evan said. "Daddy has a gun."

"That's not why," Stan said. "I just wanted to see you guys, and I was up early and not on shift, so here I am. Are you, uh. Worried? You don't feel safe at Mommy's house?"

"You should stay with us until they catch the murderer," Evan said, not exactly answering the question. 

"I feel safe there," Wayne said. "I can watch them." 

"Watch them?" Stan said, peering into the rear view mirror. Wayne shrugged.

"Mom and Evie," he said. 

"You don't have a gun," Evan said. "Dad. Are you going to give Wayne a gun?"

"No, of course not. Kids can't--"

"Are you gonna give one to Mom? From your work?"

"No! Evan, stop it about the guns, okay? You're safe. Mom and Wayne can-- These people, the ones who died, they're older. Certain, uh. Certain criminals go after kids. This is not one of those kinds of bad guys." He didn't feel confident about this or that he shouldn't stay with Lola and the kids until the case was cracked, but in the meantime there was no reason to alarm his daughter, who was staring at him and fidgeting with her seat belt.

"Who do you think is doing it?" Wayne asked. He was trying to sound cool, interested, but Stan could see that he was a little scared, too, also fidgeting. 

"We don't know yet," Stan said. "But we've got big-time guys from Denver here to help us with things now." It hurt his pride a little to say so, but Bebe had been right the other day. It didn't matter who solved this, as long as people stopped getting killed. "Between us and them, we'll figure it out."

Evan gave him a hug and a kiss before climbing out of the car at the elementary school. Stan watched until she had dashed in through the front doors, waving to the security guard and teacher chaperone who were posted there. He glanced into the back seat and gave Wayne a hopeful smile. 

"Want to ride up front?" he asked.

"It's okay," Wayne said. "Are you sick?"

"Huh? No, buddy, I'm fine. Why?"

"You look like you have a cold or something."

"I haven't been sleeping too great," Stan said. He turned back around and pulled away from the elementary school. "School going okay for you?" he asked. 

"It's boring," Wayne said. He leaned forward a little, his elbows on his knees. "Do you think it's somebody we know?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"Me and my friends were talking, like. If somebody is killing people in South Park, don't they live here, too? And between me and my friends, we were thinking, one of us probably knows the killer. I mean, it could be the guy who works at the gas station, or one of our teachers, or somebody's uncle--"

"That's--" Stan shook his head. "That's not necessarily what's going on here." 

"Who do you think it is? Just some stranger? Why'd they pick South Park?"

"Wayne, we don't know that much about anything yet. The investigation just started. These things can take years." 

"Years? With people dying every three days? We'll all be wiped out before you catch him, at that rate!" 

"I don't think somebody's going to die every three days. How, um. Are you sleeping okay? Are you worrying about this, you and your friends--"

"It's not worry." Wayne sat back and yanked his bookbag into his lap. They were approaching the middle school. "It's just interesting."

"It's sad," Stan said. "The last victim had a wife and two kids. Little kids, and now." 

"Is that why you drove us to school today?" Wayne asked as Stan pulled up to the front entrance of the middle school. 

"What do you mean?"

"I mean -- never mind." Wayne slumped toward the window and stared glumly at his school. There was no security guard posted here, no chaperone waiting outside, but Stan could see the receptionist in the front office. 

"South Park is still safe for kids," he said, speaking mostly to himself. "Just don't go wandering around on your own. Not ever, Wayne, not anywhere. You and Paul, in the woods that night--" 

"Oh my god, stop!" Wayne said. "I know, okay! It was one time! And what, you never wandered around on your own when you were my age? Ever?"

Stan could confidently say that no, he hadn't. He'd always been with Kyle. He kept his mouth shut and watched Wayne climb out.

"Hey," he said, putting his window down. Wayne made an exasperated sound, but he turned, looking so vulnerable as he stood between Stan's car and the school that Stan wanted to order him back into the car again. "I know you're a good kid," Stan said. "I just want you to be careful. I love you, alright?"

"Alright," Wayne said, mildly enough that it felt like an admission that he loved Stan back. "Bye."

Stan went home, showered, and put on his uniform. He got coffee as soon as he was at the station, and sat down with the paperwork that would occupy him until he and Bebe went out on patrol in an hour. She was on the phone at her desk, speaking softly into the receiver. She looked well-rested enough, despite or maybe because of the night spent with Kenny. Stan thought of Wayne saying he looked like he had a cold, and Kyle telling Kenny that he seemed unwell. He had an email from HR in his inbox, reminding him about the mandatory counseling. Surely at bigger and busier precincts, in New York and D.C., there was no such thing required after dead bodies turned up on the job. Stan didn't delete the email, but he didn't click the link that prompted him to request an appointment. 

The day's patrol was busy but mundane, and Stan noticed as he drove around the town with Bebe that South Park already seemed more crowded with strangers than it had after Ruby's murder. News vans lingered, and the FBI presence felt obvious to him, everywhere they went, though there couldn't have been more than six agents in the field at the Harrison crime scene, and some of them had probably gone back to Denver with evidence and photos by now. He supposed he was just looking for Kyle, afraid to be ambushed by his searing-bright presence again. 

"We've got a report of a possible 910 over at 32 Sycamore," the dispatcher radioed after Stan and Bebe had finished eating their City Wok lunch specials in the front seat of the car, watching for speeders near the restaurant. "The 911 call was from Linda Stotch," the dispatcher added. "So take that into account." 

"Ten-four," Bebe said, and she groaned. Stan put the sirens on and peeled out onto the road, feeling defensive on Mrs. Stotch's behalf, though it was true that she often imagined things and seemed to have 911 on speed dial. Still, they had to take her seriously, and now more than ever. There were strange folk about, and at least one murderer at large. "Bet you ten bucks it's a squirrel," Bebe said when she noticed Stan's serious expression.

"C'mon," he said. "She's a woman living alone. I'm sure she's seen the news. She's probably scared out of her mind, uh. More so than usual." 

"I asked Kenny when Butters was going to come back and do something about her," Bebe said. "He says Butters is dithering." 

"Dithering?"

"That's the word he used, yeah."

"That's a very Butters-appropriate word, actually." 

"Yeah," Bebe said. "Kenny can be surprisingly good at coming up with the right words." 

Stan decided to leave that alone for now. He thought of Kyle in Denver, hearing about Stan's divorce and peering down at his cell phone, talking himself out of calling, telling himself Stan wouldn't want to hear from him, wondering how he was doing and what had finally emancipated him from his marriage. Dithering. The word didn't fit Kyle as well; Stan could hardly blame him for hesitating. 

"Shit," Stan said. "I am an asshole, you're right." 

"Huh?" Bebe said.

"To Kyle. Never mind."

They were unable to locate the reported prowler at Mrs. Stotch's house, and they found no signs of an attempted break-in. When they asked her what she'd seen and heard precisely, she seemed confused.

"He has chestnut brown eyes," she said, standing in the doorway of her house and frowning out at them. "Brown eyes -- wait, I said that already. Brown hair, I mean, and he's about my height--"

"The prowler?" Bebe said. "You saw him?"

"Prowler? What prowler, no-- My husband Stephen, he's missing. Aren't you people going to do something about it? There's a killer on the loose, for heaven's sake!" 

"Linda," Bebe said, snapping her report notebook shut. "Would you like me to call up Butters for you? Maybe he should stay with you, if you're feeling nervous about the murders." 

"He goes to the gentleman's club sometimes," Linda said, lowering her voice. "Butters saw him there once, when he was young. Is that place still open?" She seemed to grow more lucid after asking, and she frowned again. "You people ought to shut it down. What goes on there can't be legal." 

"Make sure all your doors are locked after we've left," Stan said. Bebe was already walking back to the car. "And don't hesitate to call us if you see anything, um. Anybody on your property, looking suspicious." 

"You probably go to that place yourself," Linda said. She sniffed angrily and slammed the door on Stan. 

He walked back to the car feeling struck, and Bebe shook her head when he climbed in behind the driver's seat.

"I'm going to tell Kenny to call Butters," she said. "This can't go on-- She's going to end up hurting herself."

"The place looked immaculate," Stan said. "It's like she can turn it on and off." 

"What, her sanity?"

"Yeah. Do you think she knows I sleep with men?"

"What!" Bebe barked a laugh and shook her head. "No, Stan. Why?"

"She just. I don't know, she looked at me like she knew, and then she accused me of going to that gay sex club. That thing's not still open, is it?"

"The one next to the dirty movie theater? No, all that stuff's gone. We don't even have a gay bar anymore, do we?"

"You're asking me?" Stan said, and he turned on the car. "All we have is Skeeter's, as far as I know." 

"Shit," Bebe said. "It's two thirty."

"I know what time it is," Stan said, mumbling. "Where are we meeting Kyle for this interview?"

"At the station. I figured that was, like. The most professional place to do it."

"Right."

Back at the station, Stan was jumpy while he waited for Kyle to arrive, the cheap Chinese food sitting uncomfortably on his stomach. He felt like Kyle would be interviewing him not on the the crime scenes but on what had happened back then, or not happened. 

"Why are you doing this?" Kyle had said on the morning of Stan's wedding, after Stan had thrown up for the second time. 

"Because it's the right thing to do," Stan said, his head still in the toilet. He'd meant because of the baby, because he was going to be a father so he might as well try to be a husband, but when he looked up he could see that Kyle had heard this like an admission that Stan thought Kyle was, simultaneously, the wrong thing to do. Stan was too ill and doomed and tongue-tied to say otherwise, so they went to the altar together with that hanging between them, and Kyle stopped answering Stan's emails a few months into his first semester away at college. It was a gradual, friendly, growing disinterest in Stan's miserable new life, and it hurt worse than a dramatic blowup would have.

"He's here," Bebe said, coming to Stan's desk, and he snapped out of it, stood up. Kyle was signing in at the reception desk, bending at the waist and writing carefully. His suit was dark grey, and his tie was black. He smiled at Bebe and Stan mildly as a rookie officer led him to their desks. 

"Do you have a conference room where we can do this?" Kyle asked. He was carrying a black briefcase that looked expensive. 

"We have a booking room," Bebe said. "Not much in the way of atmosphere, but it's quiet."

"That will be fine," Kyle said. He wasn't looking at Stan much, and his faint smile seemed weird, for the occasion. They filed into the booking room, Stan dragging an extra chair in behind him. Kyle sat on one side of the metal table in the center of the room, and Stan and Bebe took the other side. There was a pair of open cuffs looped around the bar in the middle of the table. Stan wanted to get rid of them, but he felt like doing so would be childish in some way. He watched Kyle open his briefcase and arrange his things: a slim voice recorder, a yellow eight-by-ten notepad, and a black pen that he uncapped and set beside the pad. He took off his suit jacket, revealing navy suspenders underneath. Stan heard Bebe bite down on a laugh as Kyle hung the jacket carefully on the back of his chair. Stan didn't see what was funny. The suspenders were cute. Everything about this whole ritual was, and it gave him an unexpected thrill to see that Kyle carried his gun at his hip, on a subtle belt holster. Stan hadn't noticed the bulge under his suit jacket.

"Do you want coffee?" Stan asked, though it seemed like a stupid question. Kyle shook his head.

"I have to stop drinking coffee at noon," he said. "Or I'll chug it all day." 

"I drink too much of it," Stan said. He had to fight the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, feeling like an idiot. Kyle cleared his throat and touched his fingertips to his yellow notepad.

"Before I turn on the recorder," he said. "I'd like to apologize to you both for last night. Me and Mac had left Denver at three in the morning, and I was in the field all day. I didn't eat as well as I should have, because I was overwhelmed with work, so my blood sugar was screwy. I shouldn't have pushed myself to go out, but I didn't want you all to think, um. That I didn't want to see you."

"Kyle, it's fine," Bebe said. "Really."

"That wine went right to my head on a mostly empty stomach," Kyle said. He was still looking down at the notebook, touching it lightly. "Hence my dramatic exit. Sorry." When he raised his eyes he was looking at Stan. 

"It's okay," Stan said. "We were just. I called you, um. I think I left a weird message."

"Anyway," Kyle said, waving his hand over the notepad. "Let's get started."

Kyle asked them about the call to the crime scene, their approach to the building, why they felt something was off when they got there. Stan let Bebe do most of the talking. He nodded along with her, muttering his input here and there. It was all in his report, anyway. Mostly he watched Kyle, staring at the fine red hair on his wrists, which peeked out from the cuffs of his shirt when he rolled them back a bit. Kyle's fingers were tense when he took notes, and his writing was just as Stan remembered it from the notes he'd borrowed in high school: small, precise, making efficient use of space on the paper.

"At the diner yesterday," Kyle said, and Stan's attention returned to the conversation. "Stan mentioned that he saw the number two in the slashes on David's body, whereas Ruby's wounds were three horizontal lines. I just want to include that in the official interview transcript," he said, glancing up at Bebe before turning his gaze on Stan. "It's an excellent observation, whether it means anything or not."

"You would have seen it eventually," Stan said. 

"But maybe not until we found the next victim," Kyle said.

"Jesus," Bebe said. "You're sure there's going to be another one?"

"Sure? Of course not. But this kind of ritualized killing is rarely limited to two victims. We're going to need you all to be incredibly attentive to your patrols in the coming weeks, and meticulous in your response to any disturbances." 

"We always are," Stan said, offended. "We just spent an hour poking around Linda Stotch's place because she called us about some vague prowler she may or may not have heard in her backyard."

"Linda Stotch." Kyle frowned. "Did you find any evidence of an intruder?"

"Nah," Bebe said. "Nothing, and we really did look the place over well, just in case. But she's a lonely fruit bat who barely knows what's going on, as far as we can tell. She once called 911 to complain that an acorn hit the roof of her car."

"Christ." Kyle turned off the recorder and tapped his pen against his thumb. "What's Butters doing about this?"

"Nothing," Stan said. "He lives in Vermont. I think he might be married?"

"To a man or a woman?" Kyle asked, looking alarmed.

"I don't think he's married," Bebe said. "He's not really in touch with any of us except Kenny, and just barely with him. I'm going to try to get Kenny to encourage him to come home. I thought there was some rumor that he'd be back soon?"

"Don't look at me," Stan said. "I hear all my rumors from you, after you hear them from Kenny." 

"Does it still feel like that here?" Kyle asked, his fingertip hovering over the 'record' button on his device. "Like. Everybody knows everybody else's business, more or less? Eventually?"

"It's still a small town," Bebe said. "But, come to think of it-- no, not really. Not as much as when we were kids. People are a little more closed off. I'm not sure why."

There was a knock on the booking room door, and Stan jumped a bit, in the same instant that Kyle did. 

"Come in," Kyle called, as if this was his personal office. The door opened, and the rookie officer who had led Kyle back poked his head in.

"Are you guys almost done?" he asked. "We just got a call about some kids trespassing up at the old Mephesto lab. Me and Durham would take it, but, uh, last time we got a call about teenage hoodlums they were kids we were in school with just a few years back, and it got, kind of, more heated than it should have--"

"I think we're done," Bebe said. Stan turned back toward Kyle and rolled his eyes. Bebe was too easy on the especially baby-faced rookies, and this kid was one of them. "Kyle?" Bebe said. "You have all the info you need?"

"For now, yes," he said, nodding. "I'll be back in touch, of course, as the investigation progresses. Um, if there are questions."

"What's the nature of the complaint?" Stan asked, annoyed that some teenagers making trouble up on the mountain had shortened his time with Kyle.

“Just the usual from that old lady who lives at the foot of the mountain,” the rookie said. “Kids laughing, driving up that dangerous old road, breaking windows up there.”

“Kids still do that?” Kyle said. He was putting away his things. Stan watched, waiting for Kyle to meet his eyes.

“Yeah,” Stan said when Kyle looked up. “They still do.” 

Kyle shrugged his jacket on and followed Stan and Bebe out through the station. He seemed impervious to the angry stare that Yates was giving him as he passed by. Outside, the daylight was already beginning to fade. Stan could smell a chimney fire somewhere in the distance, and he thought of his uncle Jimbo's cabin out in the woods, not far from the Mephesto lab. He stood watching a jet trail streaking through the sky, just where the pale of the afternoon met the deepening blue, like a seam. He was aware of Kyle standing beside him, and of Bebe dawdling near the car, bending down to see her reflection in the window while she adjusted her messy ponytail. It was like she was trying to give them a moment to say goodbye, as if this might be the last time Stan saw Kyle while he was in town. 

“I was thinking,” Kyle said, and Stan turned to him too eagerly, wondering if he was chilly in that thin suit jacket. “I could come with you guys. Ride up to the old lab with you, I mean. I'm on dinner break until six, and I. I'm still trying to get a feel for the town, you know, again. Just riding with you on a low-key call might help.” 

“Yeah,” Stan said. He'd been ready to agree six words in. “What do you carry?” he asked.

“It's just a Glock 22,” Kyle said, pulling his jacket back to show Stan his gun. “Yours is M&P, I assume?”

“Yeah, a forty. I've got a Remington in the car, too.” 

Kyle raised his eyebrows. “You think we're going to need to draw weapons on this call?”

“Oh, no, Jesus, I just. Noticed, uh. In the booking room, when you took off your blazer.” 

“It's not a blazer.”

“Didn't you bring a real coat from Denver?” Stan asked. “It's gonna get cold soon, dude. What?” he said when Kyle just grinned at him.

“Nothing.” Kyle looked away, toward Stan's car. “You still call me 'dude.' I think that's the third time now.” 

“You've been counting?” Stan couldn't stop himself from beaming, only gloating a little. Kyle shoved him toward the car. 

Stan drove, and he mostly stayed quiet while Kyle and Bebe talked, exchanging the animated gossip that Kyle had missed out on when he rushed away from the restaurant the night before. 

“I'm surprised Kenny is still single,” Kyle said at one point. “Maybe it's the mortician thing? Women don't want to live in a funeral home?”

“It's not that,” Bebe said. Stan looked over at her in surprise, and she seemed to consider whether or not she should say more, her jaw shifting. “He disappears.” 

“Oh,” Kyle said, sounding so much like his eight-year-old self that Stan had to push down a happy laugh.

“Disappears?” Stan said, not familiar with that facet of Kenny pathology. Bebe shook her head.

“Put your lights on,” she said as they started up the mountain. “Headlights, I mean.” 

The sun had just begun to set as they reached the steep gravel driveway that led up to what was once the eccentric geneticist's private laboratory. Before that, the building had been a state-run mental hospital. Mephesto had bought the property cheap when state funding dried up and the mental patients were bussed to other hospitals -- or released into the surrounding woods, if the urban legends Stan grew up with were to be believed. The drive up toward the crumbling building was bumpy, and Stan hoped they would be able to corral these kids before the sun finished setting. He'd never been up to the old lab after dark, but he'd made plenty of trips during the afternoon as a cop, and also when he was a teenager himself, with Kyle and his other friends.

“Wow,” Kyle said as they pulled up. The building was seven stories tall and not designed to be aesthetically pleasing; it resembled a fortress. The exterior was still solid and intact, though badly scarred by time and dotted with broken windows, jagged glass. “This place is a mess,” Kyle said. “Why don't they tear it down?”

“Don't know,” Stan said. “It might still belong to Mephesto's son. He went to some Ivy League college, hasn't been back since.” 

Stan climbed out of the car, wishing again that Kyle had a coat. It was colder up in the mountains, and the chill of evening was descending fast, too. Even the tree line looked sinister as the glow of sundown lit it from behind, making the silhouetted pines resemble a monster's uneven teeth. Stan went back to the car for his spare flashlight and handed it to Kyle. Bebe was patrolling the perimeter, shouting that they were police and asking if anyone was there. Stan couldn't smell fresh spray paint layered onto the already overlapping tags on the building's exterior, didn't see flashlight beams in the upstairs windows or catch a whiff of nearby pot. There weren't even any fresh cigarette butts on the ground, but he did see muddy tire tracks that looked recent. 

“Brings back memories,” Kyle said. He walked alongside Stan, shining his flashlight beam here and there before returning it to the same spots that Stan focused on. 

“Yeah,” Stan said, thinking of those late fall afternoons, riding bikes all the way out here with Kyle, laughing nervously as they poked around outside the creepy old building. They'd never been rebellious enough, or brave enough, to cut the chains on the front doors or tear the boards from a first floor window and slip inside. “You want my coat?” Stan asked. 

“Your-- what?” Kyle laughed and looked at Stan like he was crazy. “No, thank you. Stan. I'm not even cold.”

Stan didn't buy this, because Kyle was letting his shoulder bump against Stan's while they walked, which was something he always used to do when he was hoping Stan would offer his jacket or toss an arm around him for warmth. Kyle had been so skinny back then, always shivering. 

“You guys see anything?” Bebe asked, radioing this to Stan from the other side of the building.

“Nope,” Stan said. “You?”

“Not yet. Let's meet at back, circle the perimeter again on the way to the car and get the hell out of here. This place stinks.”

“What is that?” Kyle asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Rotting leaves,” Stan said. “And, just. Decay, disuse.” 

“It's chemical,” Kyle said. “Like formaldehyde.” 

“Well, I'm sure old man Mephesto left plenty of that inside when he abandoned the place.” 

Stan slowed his steps on the walk toward the back of the building. The woods behind the lab were thick and rapidly darkening, silent except for a soft wind that moved through the pine branches overhead. The building and even the surrounding woods emanated a kind of sad, hollow menace, but Stan had strangely good memories of this place, tied up with the season of trick-or-treating and pumpkin carving. He had sort of loved coming here as a kid, though the place did scare him. It was something about the anticipation of approaching an unknowable danger, then dashing back home before the sun went down, Kyle beside him the whole time. 

“Tomorrow is your birthday,” Kyle said. He had turned his flashlight off and was still walking close, letting his shoulder bump against Stan's. 

“Yeah,” Stan said. “A boring one. Thirty-one. I don't really have anything planned.” 

“October nineteenth,” Kyle said. “Every year, you know. That day always makes me sad.”

“Why?” Stan asked, though he knew. May twenty-sixth, same thing.

“Because we don't talk anymore,” Kyle said. “But I still feel like I know you, even though I also know that I – don't. You're like this phantom limb.” 

“I know,” Stan said, not wanting to pretend anymore that he didn't understand. Not now, here, in the huge shadow that this place threw over them. “I mean. I feel the same way.” 

Kyle seemed to be trying to say something, his lips parted and his eyebrows drawn together. He stopped walking when they reached the corner and turned toward the back wall of the building. Stan could see Bebe's flashlight bobbing up ahead, moving toward them.

“There are things I never told you,” Kyle said, speaking softly. He was watching the beam of Bebe's flashlight, looking like he'd just passed through a cold spot that might have been a ghost.

“I know,” Stan said, again, wanting to slide his coat off and wrap Kyle into it. “There's, yeah, so much. I should have, back then, things I should have said—”

“I think we're talking about different things,” Kyle said. 

“What – yeah?”

“You said you don't have plans for your birthday,” Kyle said, finally looking at Stan. “Would you, um. Like to hang out? With me?”

“Yeah,” Stan said, withholding a smart ass remark about whether or not Mac would be invited along. “Oh, shit, but I do have to work until six, and I was planning on having dinner with my kids. They're spending the night, um. But you could come over after they go to bed. Or, you know. You could meet them.”

“God,” Kyle said, and clearly that was the last thing he wanted, which hurt a little. “No, I. I need to talk to you, so. It would be strange, with your kids there.” 

“Okay, well. Day after my birthday?”

“What are you guys doing?” Bebe shouted. “You want to just go?” she asked when she reached them. She was slightly breathless, hurrying her steps. “I mean, I do,” she said. “Whoever was up here is gone, and it's getting dark.”

“Yes, let's go,” Kyle said, taking her arm. “Walk with us. It's still so eerie up here. I didn't think it would bother me.” 

They headed back to the car, finding no signs of the trespassing teens on the way. Stan figured those kids were probably on their way home when the old woman heard them making a ruckus. He had no trouble believing they'd been here; it was just a few weeks from Halloween, and calls about break-ins at the old lab always increased as the holiday approached and kids went looking for a 'real' haunted house. 

“What are you doing for your dinner break?” Bebe asked Kyle as they drove away from the lab, Stan's cruiser bouncing over the gravel road again. The sun was almost gone, and Stan was glad that they would reach the main mountain road before it disappeared entirely. 

“Hmm,” Kyle said. “I don't know, honestly. The dining selections here are even more limited than I remembered.”

“City Wok's still good,” Stan said. Kyle laughed, to Stan's annoyance. That hadn't been a joke. 

They drove Kyle back to the station, where he'd left his car. He thanked them for the 'nostalgic field trip' and waved to Stan as if he'd forgotten about their half-formed plans, but as Stan headed back into the station he felt his cell phone buzz. It was a text from Kyle:

_Day after your birthday, yes. Sounds good, dude._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This is the chapter that contains a discussion of past childhood sexual abuse. (See end notes if you want more details before proceeding).

Stan woke up feeling optimistic on his thirty-first birthday, possibly only because it was already a huge improvement over his thirtieth. Last year, he had just finalized his divorce, and had allowed Kenny to convince him to go to Denver for a bar crawl. Stan couldn't remember past the third bar and woke up feeling shipwrecked in some fancy hotel room that Kenny told him he had agreed to pay for the night before. Kenny ended up chipping in for half. He was plenty hungover himself, but he remembered more of their drunken conversation than Stan did. 

"Last night I told you that I'm pretty sure Kevin is gay," Kenny said when they were at Denny's, halfway back to South Park. Stan was miserably hugging a cup of coffee while Kenny shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth. "And last night," Kenny said, sheepish and peering at Stan apologetically from over his plate of eggs. “You said 'me too.'”

Stan was too miserably ill to muster the energy to deny it. He grunted and nodded. 

"Bisexual," he mumbled, and he burned his mouth when he drank from his coffee, that word still tasting strange on his tongue.

The morning of his thirty-first birthday was already far better than that one. He wasn't suffering with a hangover, saying 'bisexual' didn't make him turn red anymore, and he had actual plans to hang out with Kyle soon, for the first time since the nauseating weeks prior to Stan's wedding. Stan was humming in the shower before his shift, and by the time he dressed in his uniform he was feeling a bit guilty about his good mood. There was still a killer at large, and the whole town was on edge, waiting to see what would happen next. Stan remembered Kyle's smug instruction to be extra vigilant, and he grinned to himself as he headed to his patrol car, no longer annoyed by the fact that Kyle had stated the obvious. He had always done so when they were kids, and it wasn't because he thought Stan was stupid. He just liked to make sure they were on the same page.

At the station, Bebe had brought two boxes of fancy donuts to mark the occasion of Stan's birthday. Stan selected a fluffy, powdered sugar-dusted one filled with cream and sliced strawberries. He headed to his desk to get started on the morning's paperwork, glad that Bebe hadn't tied a balloon to the back of his chair this year.

"Feel older?" Bebe asked when she sat on the corner of Stan's desk, holding a half-eaten chocolate donut. Stan was going to say no, like he always had in response to this question, but that response wasn't accurate this year.

"I actually do," he said. "It's been a good year, mostly. Not easy, but good."

"Is Kyle going to join us tonight?" 

"Nah, he's not. He, um. I think it would be weird for him to meet the kids, I guess?"

Bebe rolled her eyes. 

"But we're hanging out tomorrow," Stan said, defensively. "After my shift, so. It'll be good to catch up for real. Outside of the investigation."

"Outside of the investigation is right," Bebe said, and she scoffed. "Now that the FBI got brought in, I'm having a hard time getting any information about how they're progressing. That Mac guy told the Chief they'd brief us weekly. Weekly? Are they fucking kidding?"

"Kyle will tell me what's going on," Stan said, and Bebe seemed to consider disputing this, her eyebrows twitching and her mouth dropping open. She took another bite of her donut instead, maybe because it was Stan's birthday.

Their patrol felt like an average workday before the murders: a few traffic stops, some kids trying to mess with a fire hydrant, and a minor scuffle at Skeeter's to finish out the day. In the past, Stan had been comforted by the manageable scale of these small town incidents while he was on duty, but they felt like busy work in light of the unsolved murders, and he was a little on edge by the end of his shift. He could tell that Bebe was feeling it, too. She seemed to be having a hard time sitting still, and she kept checking and rechecking the radio whenever it went silent. 

"It'll be fun tonight," she said when Stan dropped her off at the station."Me and Kenny will bring a box of wine."

"You're coming together?" Stan said. 

"I'm giving him a ride. He's getting ready for this big Mormon funeral." Bebe leaned into the open passenger side door and looked back into the car, at Stan. "He's weird about this," she said. "The deaths. He hasn't been that upset about it, not the way most people are. I guess because he sees dead bodies all the time?"

"Probably. What's the other explanation, he's our suspect?"

"Oh, shut up," Bebe said. "See you later."

Driving to pick up the kids, Stan thought about what Wayne had said the day before. _It's got to be someone we know_. It wasn't necessarily true, and didn't feel as if it possibly could be, but Stan couldn't rule it out. The idea that it could be Kenny was purely a joke, but there were other South Park citizens he'd known since boyhood who he didn't really 'know' at all, beyond a polite familiarity. He thought of Cartman, who had arrived at Skeeter's with his dealership cronies as Stan and Bebe were packing off the drunk and disorderly scuffle-instigator. Cartman seemed more likely to kill without remorse in a crime of passion than in some kind of carefully planned scheme involving the removal of tongues, but Stan had to admit that Kyle was right: they couldn't overlook the people in the community who had a record of criminal pathology. 

He tried to come up with anybody else who still lived in town and had a serious criminal record, and he could only think of Linda Stotch trying to drown Butters in the family car. Since Butters escaped, there wasn't enough evidence to prove that he had actually been in the car when she drove it into the lake. Butters wasn't willing to testify that he had been after Linda recanted her original, televised statement and characterized it as a hysterical delusion, but everybody knew. It was one of those sick, open South Park secrets that nobody talked about even back then, and certainly not now. Though he had protected her as a child, Stan couldn't blame Butters for not wanting to drop everything and return to the town where he grew up miserable, abused, and in denial about his mother's attempted murder of him, only to be asked to care for her as she deteriorated again. 

At Lola's house, Evan ran out to meet Stan on the front walk and threw her arms around him, the birthday card she'd made for him flapping in her hand. Stan lifted her up into a hug and held on a little longer than he normally did, unable to fathom how any amount of grief could make a parent hurt their child. Wayne came out next, carrying both of their overnight bags, and Stan grinned at the sight of Wayne holding Evan's little backpack, which was festooned with _Frozen_ characters. 

"Mom says to tell you happy birthday," Wayne said. "From her, I mean."

"Right," Stan said, setting Evan down. "Well, thanks to Mom."

"She's inside on the phone," Wayne said. "Also. Happy birthday from me, too." 

"He didn't make a card," Evan said, smoothing hers out against her chest.

"That's okay," Stan said. He stepped forward to hug Wayne, hoping that he wouldn't rear away. Wayne relented and even hugged Stan back, patting his shoulder. "Let me see this card," Stan said, one arm still hugged around Wayne. Evan beamed and presented it to him. She'd painted the Broncos logo on front, and inside there was a drawing of a cop car and a birthday cake, the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDY sandwiched between them. "This is awesome!" Stan said, truly kind of thrilled. "Wow, look, you did my car just right." 

"I used a picture of it," Evan said. "But I didn't trace!"

They picked up a pizza on the way to Stan's house, and Bebe arrived with Kenny and the promised box of wine as Stan was setting out paper plates. Kevin McCormick showed up an hour later with a cake. Karen was with him, probably for purposes of security rather than any desire to spend the evening celebrating her brothers' friend's birthday. Stan was glad to see her, though also embarrassed about scaring her earlier in the week. There were no candles for the cake, but Bebe led everyone in the birthday song before she sliced it up. It felt like a proper party, much more celebratory than last year's post-divorce bar crawl, but Stan kept catching himself feeling like something was missing. He tried to convince himself that it was the absence of Lola, not Kyle, that felt unfamiliar, then had another glass of box wine and decided that was stupid. He'd spent too much time already trying to talk himself out of wanting Kyle around all the time. It was a relief, finally, to realize that it was still true.

Karen and Kevin went home after the kids went to bed, Kevin without so much as a wink to indicate that Stan might cash in on some birthday sex later in the week. Sometimes it seemed like Kevin regularly forgot what went on between them in his foggy little apartment. Though it was a little disorienting, Stan preferred this selective amnesia to Kevin Stoley-Donovan's pointed stares in public. 

"So I've got the Mormon funeral tomorrow," Kenny said when it was just him, Stan and Bebe sitting in the glow of the cheap chandelier over the kitchen table, the rest of the house dark and quiet. 

"Let's not talk about funerals," Bebe said. "It's Stan's birthday." 

"What do you want from me?" Kenny said. "Death is my life." 

"I'm jumpy every time we get radioed, past few days," Stan said. He would only admit this to the two of them, and he craned his neck to check the back hallway and make sure that Wayne wasn't passing through on his way to the bathroom. "Afraid we're going to have another dead person with no tongue any day now,” Stan said. 

"I know," Bebe said. "I feel like everybody's sort of holding their breath." 

"No pun intended," Kenny said. "I assume."

"Will you stop?" Bebe said, slamming her wine glass down. "People are dying. I'd think you, of all people, would know to show some respect." 

"We're not among the grieving here, Bebe," Kenny said. "I'm just talking with my friends. Lighten up." 

"It's not light for me and Stan!" Bebe said, her voice rising until Stan worried Evan would wake up to flashbacks of fights she overheard between him and Lola. "Me and Stan found Ruby, who was your sister's best friend, by the way." 

"I know that," Kenny said. "I know more about grief and dying than I could ever explain, okay?" 

"You're always saying shit like that," Bebe said. She had lowered her voice, but had simultaneously infused it with real anger. "No one forced you to become a mortician. If you hate it so much, why don't you--"

"Who says I hate it? I actually love it." 

"Well, that's a little fucked up, honestly!"

"Guys," Stan said. "Stop. It's my birthday."

"Sorry," Bebe said, pushing her wine glass away. "I had one too many. This cheap stuff gives me the worst buzz." She glanced over at Kenny, and raised her shoulder when he reached for her. 

"Let me drive you home," he said, so softly that Stan got up from the table, gathering frosting-smeared plates. 

"I'm just gonna crash on Stan's couch," she said. "My shift doesn't start until noon tomorrow. Stan, do you mind?"

"Of course not," he said. His recent policy on company was the more the merrier. "Kenny, you could join her on the couch if you want," Stan said.

"Excuse me," Bebe said. "It might be your couch, but you don't get to give him permission to sleep there with me."

"I didn't mean," Stan said, flustered at the sink. He'd had one too many himself, and was feeling bleary, over-tired. "I didn't mean sex," he said, almost whispering this. "The kids are here. Just, for sleeping." 

"Sharing a couch with him is more intimacy than I can deal with right now," Bebe said.

"Now you're talking about me like I'm not here?" Kenny said. 

"I was talking to Stan. That doesn't mean I'm pretending you're not here. Though honestly I'm starting to wish you would leave." 

"Hey, c'mon," Stan said, but Kenny was already getting up, pushing his chair in hard once he had. 

"No, I'll go," Kenny said. "I've got a ton of work to do before tomorrow. I'll be up all night preparing someone's corpse so his loved ones can have one last look at him. Like callous assholes who fetishize death do."

"Whoever said the word 'fetishize?'" Bebe asked, giving him a horrified look. 

"Guys, shhh," Stan said. "The kids." 

He walked Kenny out to his car, feeling guilty, as if his birthday had caused this fight. It wasn't unusual for Bebe and Kenny to fight publicly, but it had been a while. They were more fiery back in high school, always breaking up and reconnecting in spectacular fits of passion that occasionally threw shrapnel toward their friends.

"She's just blowing off steam," Stan said when they made it to the end of the driveway, where Kenny's car was parked. "We're both stressed." 

"She's always riding my ass like I'm this alien who doesn't fully understand how to relate to the human species," Kenny said, turning back to stare at Stan's house. "She doesn't know the first thing about my life." He sounded sad about that part, not angry. Stan was confused.

"Uh, she kinda does, dude," he said. "I mean. You've pretty much known each other all your lives--"

"She said you went up to the old Mephesto lab with Kyle yesterday," Kenny said. "Said you and Kyle wandered off together in the dark. How was that?"

Stan snorted. "How was what? We were looking for some teenagers. Kyle rode along on a call we got about kids making noise up there. You know, it's almost Halloween. Happens every year."

"Stan."

"What?"

"How was Kyle? Bebe said he was nice. She said he had a fancy special agent fountain pen and that he wears suspenders." Kenny grinned at this mental image, and Stan was glad his mood had improved, though offended on behalf of Kyle's suspenders.

"They weren't, like, polka-dotted or anything," Stan said, and Kenny laughed. 

"But what was it like, man?" Kenny asked. "Did you guys talk, up there by the creepy lab, in the dark?"

"Yeah, Kenny, and then we boned against the side of the building for old times' sake." 

"Were you boning back then?" Kenny asked, narrowing his eyes. "We could never tell."

"Quit being stupid, you know I was with Lola. Go home, okay? Or go to work, I guess."

"Yeah, I've got a lot to do tonight," Kenny said. "I want to tell them all that they're right, during the reception, but maybe they already know that."

"Huh?"

"The Mormons who think David is in heaven. Never mind. Tell Bebe I'm sorry. It's not her fault."

Stan watched Kenny drive away, feeling kind of dazed. He looked up and down the quiet street when Kenny was gone. A few neighbors had Halloween decorations out; Stan wondered if he should get pumpkins for the kids to carve, or if they would do that at Lola's house. He felt a surge of anger, surveying the sleeping houses and hearing nothing in the distance but the wind through the pines. There was a killer out there somewhere, hiding, thinking he had outsmarted those who pursued him. Stan walked back into the house, still angry, and still not sure that he would be able to do anything to stop what was happening to the town.

He put a blanket and pillow on the couch for Bebe. She had helped herself to one of his sweatshirts and was using Evan's bubblegum-flavored dental floss in the hall bathroom. Stan brought her a glass of water, not wanting to hear about her box wine hangover tomorrow during their shift, and went to check on the kids. They were sleeping on twin beds in the guest bedroom, and Stan finally didn't feel guilty for forcing them to temporarily share a room. It seemed safer, in present circumstances. He'd wanted to rent a three-bedroom house, but even this one, closer than he'd like to the bad part of town, was nearly out of his price range. The kids were both sleeping soundly, and Stan resisted the temptation to sneak in and kiss their foreheads. He went to the hall bathroom and leaned in the doorway.

"I don't want to talk about it," Bebe said, still flossing. 

"Good," Stan said. "'Cause I'm going to bed." He groaned when he felt his phone vibrate as if to object. "Fuck," he said when he saw who was calling. "Kevin," he said, to Bebe. "Stoley-Donovan." 

"You'd better answer," Bebe said. "He looked like he was ready to flay you at Bennigan's that night." 

"He can't flay me," Stan said. "Not publicly, anyway." 

"I don't know, Stan, he might be looking to embarrass you, and now Kyle's back in town."

"What's Kyle got to do with it?" Stan asked, and he answered the phone to keep from hearing her response to that question. "Hello?" he said, moving toward his bedroom. 

"Hey," Kevin said. He didn't sound angry; his voice was soft and low. Clyde was probably asleep somewhere nearby. "How are you, birthday boy?"

"I'm fine. Where's Clyde?"

"Upstairs, asleep. I miss you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Where are you right now?"

"At home," Stan said. 

"In your bedroom?" Kevin asked, breathy. 

"Uh, yeah." He shut the door behind him, already sorry that he'd answered.

"Alone?" Kevin said.

"Yes. What's up? It's late, I'm kinda--"

"What are you wearing?" Kevin asked. Stan snorted.

"Are you serious?" he asked.

"Yes," Kevin said, some of the usual bite returning to his voice. "I'm horny, I need you. He passed out after dinner. That fucking banana has totally killed his sex drive, I told you." 

This observation always caused Stan to picture Clyde with a frowning banana in place of his cock, which was not a welcome thought. He sat on the bed, not wanting to deal with this. 

"I'm wearing jeans and a sweater," Stan said. 

"Are you sure you're not wearing your uniform?" Kevin asked. Stan withheld a groan. Kevin got off on being fucked while Stan was in uniform, and Stan typically got off on it, too. He'd been wearing it when Kevin first flirted with him, at that town council meeting. 

"Fine, Kevin," Stan said, putting his hand over his dick. "I'm wearing my uniform. Even my gun belt."

“Officer,” Kevin says. “I'm all alone in my big house, and I heard a scary noise.”

“Don't do that baby voice thing, please.” 

“It wasn't a baby voice! Jesus, just. I'm a scared, lonely house husband wearing only a silk robe.” Kevin was speaking a bit flatly now, as if he knew Stan wasn't going to be able to get into this. Stan held the phone away from his mouth when he yawned. 

“I've checked the perimeter, mister,” Stan said. They had done this before, though never over the phone. “Seeing my car must have scared the prowler away.” He thought of Linda Stotch and let go of his dick, giving up on getting aroused. 

“Oh,” Kevin said, whining a little. “You saved me. How can I thank you? It's so late, and you came all this way just to check on me.” 

“Uh,” Stan said, and then he just sat there, wishing he was brushing his teeth. Kevin huffed.

“Officer,” he said. “What can I _possibly_ do to thank you?”

“Blow me,” Stan said, but it came out sounding mean, not sexy. 

“Is your cock out?” Kevin asked. He had also started to sound vaguely angry. Stan sighed hard into the phone.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess.”

“What's your problem?” Kevin snapped. “This was supposed to be your special birthday treat, which I was going to give you even though you excluded us from your creepy Bennigan's reunion--”

“It wasn't a reunion. I'm not comfortable doing this while I know Clyde is asleep upstairs, okay?”

“Yeah? Really? It's because Clyde is in town? Not because Kyle is?”

“What the fuck?” Stan said, wanting to pitch the phone across the room. “Why does everyone think-- What's Kyle got to do with it?”

“Please. Are you kidding? Everyone knows you two gave each other bro jobs back in school.”

“The fuck's a bro job?”

“Like you don't know!” Kevin said, and he hung up. Stan dropped the phone onto the bed. 

Despite the jarring phone call, it didn't take him long to fall asleep, but his dreams were unsettling and dark, often lit by a single flashlight beam that guided him uncertainly through dense woods. Kyle was in almost all of his dreams but was always out of sight, calling for Stan in the darkness, sounding like he was in danger. Stan woke from these dreams feeling almost desperate enough to text Kyle and make sure he was alright, and at four in the morning he groped for his phone with a half-asleep plan to do so. He had a message from Kyle from an hour earlier:

_Happy birthday, dude. Sorry this is late. Looking forward to hanging out tomorrow. Come to my motel room after your shift? It's room 109._

Stan hugged the phone to his chest and went back to sleep. He would respond in the morning, when the urge to send something over the top like _I can't wait, I've missed you so much, I've been dreaming about you all night, are you still okay?_ had passed. 

*

His shift went by slowly the following day, though the mundane routines that he'd known before the murders were a relief. Bebe was tired and in a bad mood, mostly keeping quiet. Stan was grateful for this, not wanting to discuss the forthcoming evening with Kyle. He didn't want to jinx it. 

“Are the kids at Lola's tonight?” Bebe asked when they were back at the station after eating dinner in the squad car -- City Wok, again. Stan nodded. 

“She has them until next weekend, according to the schedule. Last night was just, you know, for my birthday.”

“Sure,” Bebe said. She smiled in a way that made her seem sad, like it was an effort to do so. “Sorry if I ruined it,” she said. 

“Hey, no way. I'm not. Uh, I've known you and Kenny forever. It doesn't bother me.”

Bebe shrugged. She logged off shift and left the station without another word to Stan, and he wondered if he should be worried. Cheerfully, he realized he could tell Kyle all about this and get his opinion on what to do, like old times. 

Stan was jittery with anticipation as he headed to his car. He'd decided to go directly to Kyle's room instead of changing out of his uniform at home first, and he'd made no effort to convince himself he was doing this for any reason other than Kyle's comment about it looking good on him. He'd asked in a text if he should bring Kyle some dinner, and Kyle texted back that he'd already eaten but did have 'provisions' in the room. Stan was partially aroused just by that the Kyle-typical haughtiness of that word, _provisions_ , and he knew he was kind of fucked but couldn't seem to box his excitement in as neatly as he should; it was spilling over everywhere, flooding him with clumsy hope.

He got to the Travelodge a little after ten o'clock and checked his hair in the car's rear view mirror. It was okay, and the bags under his eyes weren't too obvious. As he made his way toward Room 109, a flashback jolted through him unexpectedly: something about approaching Kyle's door, preparing to knock, made him remember going up to Ruby's apartment with Bebe, not knowing what they would find inside. He cursed under his breath and tried to force the thought away before knocking, but his heart was pounding even as he heard the sound of Kyle's footsteps in the room. 

“Hey,” Stan said, letting out a shaky breath when Kyle opened the door. Kyle had taken off his tie and pushed his suspenders down to hang around his hips. Stan liked them even better this way. 

“What's wrong?” Kyle asked, peeking around Stan's shoulders to look at the motel's dingy outdoor hallway, which faced the woods. 

“What-- nothing, no. Why?” 

“You sound like you ran here,” Kyle said, stepping back to let him inside. 

“Sorry, just.” Stan laughed and walked inside, already feeling like he'd spoiled this. “I guess I'm a little, uh.” He didn't want to say jumpy, shaken, half-suffering from PTSD.

“I know,” Kyle said. He shut the door and locked it. “It's weird, right? Seeing each other again.” 

“Oh-- right.”

Stan looked around the room, his heart lifting when he saw that Kyle had tried to fancy it up a bit. There were two lit candles in jars on the room's sad little table, along with an open bottle of red wine and plate with two kinds of cheese and some crackers. Kyle's iPod was plugged into a dock and playing some ambient guitar music at a very low volume. 

“I don't know if that cheese is any good,” Kyle said. He was fumbling through a pack of mixed plastic silverware. When he came up with a knife he brought it over to the little cheese plate and stuck it into the little mound of soft, white cheese. “I got it from Sooper Foods,” Kyle said. “You guys still don't even have, like, a Whole Foods or anything.” 

“Yeah we do,” Stan said, shrugging off his jacket. 

“What? Where? Are you serious?”

"It's up Trenton Avenue, on the way to Denkins' ranch. They've got a whole new development up there. Jesus, that's weird."

"Well, it's not that weird. I mean, they're fairly ubiquitous now, it's not like an actual specialty grocery--"

"No, I mean hearing you say it like that. 'You guys' don't have a Whole Foods, like. We're here, and you're there. Sorry, I-- jesus, I don't know why I'm rambling like this.” Stan put his hands over his face, embarrassed by all of this; even the cheese was excruciating. He left his hands over his face even as he heard Kyle walking toward him, and was surprised when Kyle drew them away gently, holding Stan's wrists. He was peering up at Stan with that old, accepting look, his _dude, it's me_ expression that always dissolved Stan's anxieties. 

“I know,” Kyle said, still holding Stan's wrists. “Stan, seriously. Don't apologize-- I'm the one who ran away from that Bennigan's dinner in tears like a child, remember? I understand.” 

“You were in tears?” Stan said, wanting to hold Kyle's face, stroke his cheeks. Kyle shrugged.

“Well,” he said, and he released Stan's wrists. “Almost. Here, I can at least vouch for the wine. I was really glad to find this-- Sooper's has a surprisingly good wine selection!” Kyle went to the table, where he had two actual wine glasses sitting beside the bottle. Stan wondered where he'd gotten them; did he go to Wall-Mart and buy some just for the occasion? Kyle poured two very shallow glasses and brought one to Stan. “Happy birthday,” he said, toasting him when he'd taken it. 

“Thanks,” Stan said. It was a struggle not to gulp the wine, and a relief to have something to calm his nerves. Kyle sniffed his before drinking it, so Stan did the same. It just smelled like red wine to him, but he nodded in approving agreement when Kyle did. 

“I guess it's weird to do this here,” Kyle said. “I mean, I'm serving you wine and cheese in a Travelodge motel, what the fuck. But it was too much, that night at Bennigan's. Even Mephesto's lab was too much. I like that it's kind of-- neutral, here? And we can talk without interruptions.” 

“Yeah,” Stan said. He sat on the bed, then realized it would be rude to ignore the cheese, though he wasn't really hungry. He got up, cut a few slices and ate them over the table, scattering crumbs with every bite. He poured more wine into his glass before returning to the bed, where Kyle was sitting, cross-legged. Stan noticed then that he was shoeless. Kyle's socks were gray-blue, expensive-looking. 

“Do you like it?” Kyle asked when Stan sat beside him. 

“What? Oh, the wine, yeah.” 

“It's one of my favorites,” Kyle said. He looked away, swallowing heavily. “Sorry, fuck. I don't know where to start.” 

“I know. Do you, um. Want to hear about my birthday?”

“Yes, perfect.” Kyle grinned and drank from his glass. “I need to drink about half that bottle before we talk about the past,” he said. “Maybe you can relate.”

“Fuck, yes,” Stan said, and Kyle smiled again. “My birthday was pretty good,” Stan said. “Just had pizza and cake with the kids and a few friends.” He felt bad for saying it like that, talking about his friends like they were one thing and Kyle was another, though of course that was true now, and Kyle had turned down Stan's invitation on account of not wanting to meet his kids. “Bebe and Kenny fought,” Stan said.

“Oh, god,” Kyle said. “Those two. What set them off this time?”

“Death.” 

“Huh.”

“Yeah, it was weird. And then Kenny was talking about heaven on the driveway-- oh, fuck.”

“What?” Kyle said, leaning toward him.

“I, nothing. Gary's brother's funereal was today, shit. I said I would go, and I didn't.”

“You said-- to Kenny?”

“No, to Gary. I talked to him the other day, he called to say he was back in town for the--” Stan almost said 'murder.' “Funeral.” 

“I see.” Kyle drank some wine. “So you guys _are_ still friends,” he said, as if Stan had lied about this. 

“Sort of. He said he was ready to help in any way he can. I don't know what to tell him-- I barely know what to do about all of it myself, other than telling you my dumb theories.”

“They're not dumb,” Kyle said, frowning. “It's helpful, or anyway, it might be. It's not like Mac and I have made any amazing breakthroughs since we got here. But I really don't want to talk about the murders, or David Harrison's funeral, if you don't mind.” 

“Sure,” Stan said, annoyed. It wasn't like he'd been dying to talk about the Harrisons with Kyle, and he certainly didn't mind avoiding shoptalk. “Anyway, uh. Bebe seemed kind of rattled by the whole thing. I don't know if I should be worried about her, and them, or not.” 

“What difference is worrying going to make? Those two are grown now, and still doing this dance around each other bullshit. It's so high school.” 

“Yeah,” Stan said, hurt by that, as if it was ridiculous to still be hung up on unfinished high school business. Kyle sighed and leaned down onto the bed, propping himself on his elbow and twirling the remaining wine in his glass with his free hand. Stan wondered if he should take off his shoes, or at least his gun belt. Kyle's was hanging on the back of one of the little chairs at the table, near the cheese.

“Tell me about your kids,” Kyle said. 

“Wayne is thirteen now,” Stan said. “Evan is eight--”

“No, Stan,” Kyle said. “I mean, really tell me about them. What are they like? How did they take you and Lola splitting up?”

“Alright, I guess,” Stan said, muttering. He didn't think it was fair, Kyle not even letting him finish one glass of wine before they arrived at this subject. “Wayne's been more closed off, since. Especially with me. Evan kind of regressed a little. She clings.” 

“What's with that name?” Kyle asked. “Was that Lola's idea?”

“Yeah. She thought it was a cute name for a girl. I think so, too, actually.” 

“Okay, don't get all testy. Well, I'm sure they're very cute.” 

“I've got pictures on my phone.”

“Maybe later,” Kyle said. He drank from his wine, and smirked when he saw the look Stan was giving him. “What?” Kyle said. “I don't even know anyone else with kids, just you.” 

Stan withheld a comment about how well Kyle 'knew' him now and drank some wine instead. Again, Kyle sighed in passive protest as if he'd heard what Stan was thinking. 

“I mean, I practically raised Ike,” Kyle said. “I guess I just want a little break from all of that, until I decide, whatever. If I'll ever get married or not. Probably not.” 

“No? Yeah, I'm not getting married again,” Stan said, though it didn't feel true. “Not as long as I stay in South Park, anyway. You never, though-- nobody, you never got close?”

“To marriage?” Kyle scoffed. “No, Stan, I haven't. I had a long relationship in my mid-twenties, but he was a barista and he couldn't get past my job. He had inadequacy issues.” 

“Hmm,” Stan said, trying to picture Kyle with some pierced, angry barista. “So you've never dated any fellow FBI agents?”

“No,” Kyle said, wrinkling his nose. “We're infamously difficult to date. Especially while we're still trying to establish our careers, like I am.” 

“Police officers are the same way,” Stan said. “There's some statistic about divorce, Bebe's always bringing it up. Or she was, before I became part of that statistic.” 

“Was it hard?” Kyle asked. “Leaving her?”

“No. Leaving the kids was hard. Me and Lola-- it was a relief for us both to just call it what it was, finally.” 

“God,” Kyle said. He stood from the bed and walked over to pour himself more wine. “I'll bet,” he muttered when Stan said nothing. 

“If you want to say 'I told you so,'” Stan said, more sharply than he'd meant to, “Go ahead. Or I guess you already have.” 

“I just never understood,” Kyle said, his back to Stan. “Or maybe I thought I did, and that was worse.” 

Stan wasn't sure what he meant by that. He wanted Kyle to turn around, to give him an apologetic look. He also wanted to throw down his wine glass, walk to that table, grab Kyle by his suspenders and yank him close, kiss his pale neck. It was all coming back to him too fast, and unconfused now that he'd been with men who'd cost him less.

“Well,” Stan said, resenting the fact that he wanted to toss Kyle a bone. “I screwed up my life. You called it.” 

“It wasn't just you,” Kyle said, turning. He picked up the wine bottle and brought it over to refill Stan's glass, his hand shaking a little as he did. “It's this whole town. They were so excited to have somebody to send here, at the Bureau, when we got the assignment to investigate these murders. It was a boon for them to be able to send an agent who grew up here, and who still knows the majority of the population, more or less. And I just. I had no idea how hard it would be.” 

“Is it me?” Stan asked. Kyle's eyes jerked up to his, and he looked angry for a moment, but his expression softened and he shook his head.

“No,” Kyle said. “You're. I think you're the only reason I can stand being back here, actually.”

Stan wasn't sure how long he'd stared up at Kyle in speechless gratitude before someone knocked hard on the door; it felt both like a long time and way too short to matter. Kyle put his wine on the table and hurried to the door without casting a look back at Stan, who wanted to tell him not to open it for anybody.

It was Mac, and when Kyle let him in Stan saw the wine and cheese and guitar music as incriminating, ghost-of-high-school garbage. He was more embarrassed for Kyle than for himself, but Kyle seemed not to care that Mac was witnessing this. 

“Just wanted to make sure you saw that email from Yeager,” Mac said. He nodded at Stan as he crossed the room to help himself to a big glob of the white cheese atop a cracker, as if Kyle always had cheese on hand and he'd come looking for it. 

“I saw it,” Kyle said. He was rubbing at his face, suddenly looking as if he was ready for bed. “He's treating me like I'm a psychic. Like I was supposed to come here, take one look at the usual suspects and point out the killer before sundown.” 

Stan thought of Cartman, and Kyle glanced over at him as if he had invoked that name out loud. Stan drank from his wine and waited for Kyle to get rid of this guy. 

“Fuck Yeager,” Mac said. “He's too hard on you.” 

“He hates me,” Kyle said. 

“Nah, he just expects the most out of you. Kyle graduated at the top of his class,” Mac said, turning to Stan.

“I know,” Stan said, smug, and then he realized Mac wasn't talking about high school. 

“Dude,” Kyle said, and Stan felt like he'd been shelved in a warehouse when he saw that Kyle was talking to Mac, giving him a stern but friendly stare as he continued to consume cheese and crackers. “We're kind of in the middle of something here.” 

“Oh,” Mac said. He turned to look at Stan, his gaze crawling down to Stan's gun belt. “I thought maybe you were on duty,” he said when he met Stan's eyes again. “You're just checking on Kyle?”

“It's his birthday,” Kyle said, and he gave Mac a look that Stan couldn't interpret, some kind of signal that seemed to mean 'get out of here,' because Mac held up his hands, still chewing.

“Alright,” he said. “I'm going. Where'd you get this cheese?”

“Sooper Foods,” Kyle said, and he grinned. “You like it?”

“Uh-huh.” Mac patted Kyle on his chest as he made his way past him, toward the door. Something about the fact that he didn't even meet Kyle's eyes as he did so made the gesture more intimate than Stan could bear, and he burned inside his uniform, gulping wine now. “G'night,” Mac said, not looking back at Stan. “Don't let Yeager's bullshit get to you.” 

“I won't,” Kyle said. “Night.” He locked the door when Mac was gone, crossed the room and refilled his wine. 

“Me too,” Stan said, holding his glass out. 

“We're going through this kind of fast,” Kyle said, though the bottle hadn't even been drained to the halfway point yet. He poured Stan a stingy refill. “Relax,” Kyle said. “Take your shoes off. Unless you need to go soon?”

“I'm free all night,” Stan said, not sure if he'd meant for that to sound sexy; it hadn't, anyway. He sighed and unclipped his gun belt, standing to put it over the chair where Kyle's hung. 

“Aren't you cold, in short sleeves?” Kyle asked while Stan untied his boots. “You want a sweater?”

“I'm fine,” Stan said, imagining Kyle's fitted sweaters, maybe made of cashmere. Stan would look ridiculous in them, and he wasn't cold. He was still fuming about Mac's visit, though nothing had transpired that he could actually complain to Kyle about. “That guy,” he said, gesturing to the door with his thumb. “He's your best friend now, I guess.” 

“He's my partner. You know what it's like, with Bebe. I saw how close you guys are now.” 

“Sure, yeah. So what's he like? Seems like kind of an asshole.” 

“I think he's just threatened by you,” Kyle said. “He's heard a lot about you.” 

“Oh, great. Like what?”

“Nothing bad!” Kyle returned to the bed, and Stan counted the number of buttons Kyle had undone on his dress shirt: three. “All of my stories about being a kid are stories about you,” Kyle said. “Well, all but one.”

“Hmm?” Stan said. His heart started beating fast; Kyle was avoiding his eyes. 

“You know, and in high school, too,” Kyle said. He seemed to reach for the tie he wasn't wearing, and tugged at his collar instead. “We were still basically kids, then. With our video games and everything.” 

Stan wanted to ask what Kyle had meant by 'all but one,' but he decided not to press yet. He scooted back against the bed's thin wooden headboard, propping a pillow behind his back. Kyle stretched out on his side again, the suspender on his exposed hip looking like a strap that needed pulling on. 

“Who was this barista guy?” Stan asked. “What was his name?”

“Freddy,” Kyle said.

“Wha-- like the fucking Nightmare on Elm Street?”

“Shut up!” Kyle said, but he was laughing. “He was really cute, and helped me with a lot of my, you know. Mid-twenties gay angst. I suppose the people you're sleeping with have amazing names?” Kyle tipped his chin up and gave Stan a kind of teasing grin. He'd said _people_ a little pointedly, but seemed to share Stan's unwillingness to push at boundaries this early in the evening. Stan was dying to confess, suddenly, but he also didn't see how he could. 

“They have the same name,” Stan said, heart still pounding. 

“Who-- what?” Kyle sat up, wine sloshing in his glass. “You're. Right now, you're seeing more than one person? In South Park? With the same name?” He narrowed his eyes. “You're fucking with me.” 

“Ah,” Stan said. “Ha, well. Never mind.” 

“Never mind?” Kyle raised his eyebrows. “Stan, um. You know, if you're-- No, you're right. Forget it. It's none of my business.” 

“You called that guy 'dude,'” Stan said, looking down into his wine glass. “That Mac guy.” 

“Well, yeah. Sorry? Just, it's a term of endearment, you know? I got that from you, from us, when we were kids. Obviously. Stan, look. I want to be friends again.” 

“Me too,” Stan said, still staring at his wine. He didn't want to ruin the evening by admitting to fucking the Kevins; Kyle would be horrified at his taste, and hurt. But if it didn't come out, they couldn't really be friends again.

“I mean, I'm back in Denver,” Kyle said. “You're single now, so you probably have more free time. Maybe once a month or so we could have a firmly scheduled get-together in the city.” 

“A firmly scheduled get-together,” Stan repeated. “Once a month.” It didn't seem like enough. His whole history with Kyle was all or nothing. They were cuddling each other in Stan's bed or not speaking at all.

“I guess that's not fair,” Kyle said, his voice tightening a little. “Expecting you to always come to Denver. I suppose I need to explain, like. Why I feel like I can't breathe here, really.” 

“Why?” Stan asked, still waiting to hear that it was his fault. 

“Ah, god.” Kyle rolled off the bed and returned to the wine bottle. He lingered there after pouring a glass, helping himself to some cheese. “Do you want more of this?” he asked.

“Okay,” Stan said, though his stomach had tightened. He would eat the cheese because doing so might comfort Kyle into confessing that Stan had hurt him back then, had crushed the air from his lungs that morning in Stan's bed when they didn't kiss. Kissing Kyle still seemed impossible, but in the way that leaping off a building and taking flight was impossible: Stan would love to trust that he could do it, but he was too afraid he'd crash to earth as soon as he tried.

“Here,” Kyle said, and he brought two crackers to the bed, one of each kind of cheese spread onto them. Stan didn't know the names of these cheeses by the taste, just that they weren't cheddar, mozzarella, or blue. Mac probably knew, probably ate from Kyle's cheese plates without thanking him all the time. Kyle went to the wooden dresser across from the bed, beside the half-open bathroom door. He put his elbow on it and sighed, tugged at his collar. 

“Kyle,” Stan said. “I know--”

“No,” Kyle said. “You don't, so let me say this before I lose my nerve.” He drank from his wine and wiped at his mouth, which was stained slightly from the drink, a little purplish. “Ha,” he said. “Wow, here we go. This is so humiliating.” 

“What?” Stan asked, ready to blurt something about the Kevins, though that would probably only make Kyle feel worse. 

“Well.” Kyle was picking at the top of the dresser, which was dented with little nicks. “Do you remember, when we were kids, ten years old. Cartman, being Cartman, concocted that whole ridiculous plan to get me to be his slave for a week or so? Though it was indefinitely, as far as I knew.” 

“Yeah.” Stan regretted eating more cheese, his stomach tightening up again. Stan had begged Kyle to tell him why he was letting Cartman call him Fart Boy and humiliate him at school. Kyle had bitten back tears when he sent Stan away, refusing to tell him what was really going on. Stan had been angry, had thought Kyle had forged something real with Cartman that excluded him, like the year before, when Stan's depression gave him its first real trampling and he locked Kyle out in a similar fashion. 

“That really fucked me up, dude,” Kyle said. He was still picking at the dresser, looking down at his fingers as he worried away more bits of chipped wood. “I mean.” He swallowed, shrugged. “I didn't even lose my virginity until I was twenty-five.” 

“What does that have to do with Cartman?” Stan closed his fist around the comforter on the bed, tensing all over. 

“Well, you know.” Kyle tried to laugh, but it was mirthless and small. Stan wanted to leap up and go to him, rub his back, something, but he stayed perfectly still, frozen with dread. “He would sit on my face, like. Fart in my mouth, ha ha. That was the joke. He didn't just do it in front of people, though. He did it when it was just me and him, sometimes. And he would miss his-- mark, like. I guess I didn't get what was happening, at first. I would just lie there, I would go limp and die inside and just lie there, and that was true for the farts, too. And when he made me say I'd liked it, after. But yeah, he would. I know he was just a kid, alright, I know, and I was never sure he even knew what was he was doing, really, but he would basically, like, rut against my mouth, sometimes, if no one else was there, when I'd opened up for him to fart on me. I mean, with his-- he was still wearing clothes.” 

Kyle glanced at Stan. He'd gone very pale, his hand shaking on the dresser, fingernails tapping against it. 

“But,” Kyle said, and he looked away again. He cursed when he saw how hard he was trembling and shoved his hand into his pocket, almost spilling the wine he held in his other hand. “But it was bad,” Kyle said, his jaw clenched. “It was really bad, for me. Worse than I even realized at the time. I think it got even worse in my memory, just. Knowing that happened to me and that I just lay there and let it happen.” 

Stan slid off the bed slowly, mustering all the strength he had to keep from pitching the wine glass against the opposite wall. Hearing this, he was ready to accuse Cartman of everything: the murders, the fact that everyone from South Park seemed to be leading a life that had slipped sideways, all the evil in the fucking world. He set the wine glass on the table and turned to Kyle.

“You don't have to tell me that it wasn't actually my fault,” Kyle said when Stan walked toward him. “I know that. I've been to therapy, okay, I've dealt with this. Freddy actually helped a lot. He was the first person I ever told.” 

Stan didn't trust himself to speak yet; he didn't want to say something stupid like 'why didn't you tell me' or 'I'll kill him, you can watch.' He sucked in his breath and let it out like he'd been punched, unable to make his lungs fill wholly with air. Kyle was still at the dresser, staring at Stan's chest, at his badge. Stan eased the wine glass from Kyle's tensed hand and set it on the dresser. He didn't blame Kyle for looking a little furious when he finally met Stan's eyes, waiting to hear what he would say. 

There were no words that seemed right, not even 'dude,' so Stan didn't bother with them. He put his hands on Kyle's shoulders, not sure if he would want to be held right now. Kyle was jittery, pressing his lips together and looking up into Stan's eyes, then away, unable to settle his gaze on anything. He made a kind of irritable, exhausted little noise and collapsed against Stan's chest as soon as Stan took another step toward him, Stan's arms circling him and holding him there. Kyle's embrace was tentative at first, but his arms tightened around Stan with every second that passed, Kyle's face still hidden against his shoulder. Eventually, Stan could take full breaths again, and he felt Kyle's chest expanding against his, matching the pace of his exhales. 

“Even when I told Freddy,” Kyle said, turning his head so he could speak. “I knew he wouldn't hear it like you would. Nobody would understand how bad that had hurt me, nobody but you.” 

“I'm so sorry,” Stan said, putting his face in Kyle's hair. “Fuck, that night at dinner. _Fuck_.” 

“You didn't know,” Kyle said, shaking his head. “It's okay.”

“It's not okay. I knew all the other shit he did to you. He's sick. He's a fucking psychopath, and I knew that. Shit, I was just being contrary, acting like a child because Mac was there.”

“But you're probably right,” Kyle said, lifting his head. He stepped back a little and looked up at Stan. Kyle was blushing now, which was an improvement over paling as if he might vomit. “Just because Cartman is a disgusting sexual predator, that doesn't mean he's a serial killer. I know that. It just hurt to hear you-- not defend him, but--”

“Kyle, oh, god, I'm so sorry--”

“No, it hurt mostly because all I could think was, 'Stan doesn't know, he'll never know.' Because I didn't want you-- god, back then I think I convinced myself you would kill him if you found out. But I think what really bothered me, why I kept it in until it seemed like it was too late to talk about it, was this inkling that I liked boys, too. Even back then. And I thought I had invited what he did, somehow, by being like him.” 

“Jesus Christ, Kyle, no--”

“Well, of course I actually didn't! But I was a scared little boy, and. You know. It's strange, because I could be around him after that, and most of the time it was like this episode in my life that had begun and ended, and it was all neatly wrapped up once I was free of being his 'slave.' But then sometimes he would say something, or just look at me in a certain way, and it was like he was reminding me. He'd done that, and I'd let him, and there were no take backs. It was almost _worse_ that he never said anything about it out loud, because then I always had to wonder, was it just me? Am I remembering wrong? Did he never know what he was doing, when he did that? But the thing is, and I guess I uncovered this in therapy, ha, but. I knew, when I was underneath him, after I'd figured out what that stiff feeling was on my fucking mouth, in his pants. Whether or not he knew he was gay or attracted to me or whatever, he knew exactly what he was doing to me, that particular level of degradation, because he never did it in front of the others. If we'd been older, Stan, I think he would have done much worse. Or tried to, and then I always had to wonder, would I have let him?”

“He never tried anything after that?” Stan asked, trying to force himself to breathe normally enough to make his voice halfway steady. Kyle shook his head. 

“I made sure not to be alone with him after that. Remember how clingy I got, the year after that happened?” 

“I liked it when you clung,” Stan said, rubbing Kyle's back. Kyle leaned against his chest again, hugging him hard. 

“I felt so fucking bad about it, though,” Kyle said. He wiggled in Stan's arms until they unwound, and he moved away, going for his wine glass. “Eventually,” Kyle said. “Especially that last summer, when I was always inching a little bit closer. When I finally accepted that you weren't going to turn gay for me, I felt like such a creep. Just like him, like I'd been rubbing on you because I knew you wouldn't shove me away.” 

“Kyle, no,” Stan said, his voice finally breaking. It was a relief, even when his eyes burned. “I loved that. I loved having you that close, like. Couldn't you tell?”

“I thought I could,” Kyle said. He tipped his head back, draining his wine glass and showing Stan his bared throat. “But that wasn't your fault,” he said, when the wine was gone. “Or maybe it was. I do feel like you led me on, so.” 

Kyle pushed around Stan's attempt to hug him again, going for the wine. Stan was teetering between blurting out everything and knowing that he shouldn't, because it would be like trying to steal the thunder from Kyle's secret. He watched Kyle pour more wine for both of them, his mouth hanging open stupidly until Kyle brought him his glass. “It's okay,” Kyle said, waving his hand through the air. “Hey, look. Having a crush on you was like living on the blade of a knife for about ten years, but you were also the reason I used to think, 'maybe I'm not a huge screw-up. Because Stan likes me.'” 

“I loved you,” Stan said, hoarsely. He wanted to drain his wine glass, but he was already afraid he might puke. 

“Oh, I know,” Kyle said. “That's what I meant. We were so close. I'm sorry, I just. Couldn't help how I felt, eventually. And then I was so angry, as if you were straight just to spite me.”

“I'm not sure what I was back then,” Stan said. “Stunted, mostly. Stupid. Straight, not really. I think you know. You must know, Kyle.” 

“Well, it's neither here nor there if it was never me you wanted, so.” Kyle's eyes were unfocused, his thumb tapping on the stem of his wine glass. 

“It's only been for the past year,” Stan said, hurrying this out. “Me doing stuff, I mean. With men. Since the divorce. Before that it was just thinking about it, and I thought about you--”

“Don't tell me that!” Kyle pinched his eyes shut, and for a moment Stan was sure he was going to get a glass of wine thrown in his face. “Don't lie to spare my feelings, you could have had me if you'd wanted--”

“It wasn't that simple, Kyle! I was having a hard time, too, and it was like I just woke up in a new body after I quit my meds that year, I didn't trust it. I wanted to stay where we were and you and wanted to jump off a cliff, and when I hesitated instead of grabbing your hand you shut me out, you just turned us off like it was easy, like you'd flipped a goddamn switch.”

Stan had barely known that was in him and had not expected it to come out like a poison that he'd finally purged, nothing but relief in the saying of it until he'd stopped talking and had to listen to the echo of those words, his own ragged breath. Kyle was staring at him, his mouth hanging open.

“Hesitated?” Kyle said. He licked his purplish lips and jerked his head to the side, as if the sight of Stan had suddenly become a slap in the face. “ _Hesitated_? You went out and got that bitch pregnant!” 

“And that was all about you, huh?” Stan said, regretting this before he'd even finished saying it. Kyle sniffed and straightened his shoulders. His pink cheeks had turned red. 

“Admit it,” Kyle said. “Just act like a fucking adult and admit you did that to show me how wrong I was about you.” 

Stan slammed his wine glass on the dresser and went to Kyle, wanting to tell him he was wrong. He knew Kyle was right, and that he'd known it all along: on Stan's wedding day, all those years they spent apart, and on that morning when Stan wouldn't kiss him. Stan grabbed the wine glass out of Kyle hand and tossed it onto the floor, just short of breaking it. Kyle gasped when angry purple spilled across the carpet, staining it. 

“You're paying for that,” he said, still glowering when Stan's face was hovering over his. 

“I know,” Stan said, letting his shoulders sink. “Jesus, dude, you're telling me? I've been paying for how I fucked things up with you for the past eleven years. I know, alright, you told me so, you're right, congratulations, I _know_.” 

“Asshole,” Kyle said, shaking his head. “Too late, you're too fucking late.” 

He was opening for Stan's kiss even as he said so, and he moaned when Stan grabbed his suspenders and yanked, bringing their hips together. Kyle bucked his hips and bit Stan's bottom lip, hard enough to make Stan hiss and pull back. 

“What are you going to do?” Kyle asked. He looked angry but also amused, his hips still flush against Stan's and his blush bleeding down to his throat. “Just because you've been dry humping some townies for the past year, you think you know how to fuck me now? Did you come here in uniform because you think I'm going to get down on my knees and suck your cock while you're still wearing your gun? Ha.” 

“Kyle,” Stan said. He didn't want to do it like this, rough and fast with their defenses up. He touched Kyle's cheek, twisting the suspenders around his other hand and keeping him close. Kyle's eyes were still evasive, something in them flickering even as he held Stan's gaze. He was getting hard; Stan could feel it against the inside of his thigh. Stan's cock had started filling as soon as his hands found the suspenders. 

There was a buzzing noise that startled them both, and they turned to see Kyle's cell phone on the table, near the cheese, vibrating across the cheap wood like a robotic mouse. When Kyle moved away from him, Stan's fingers were still tangled in the suspenders at his left hip, and he ended up getting dragged across the room along with Kyle as he went to check his phone, both of them still breathing hard. 

“Fuck,” Kyle said, and Stan saw Mac's name before he answered. “What?” Kyle said. 

“Everything okay?”

Stan was close enough to hear Mac clearly. He huffed and stayed pressed against Kyle, gripping his suspenders, waiting to be pushed away. 

“Huh?” Kyle said. 

“I heard shouting over there,” Mac said. “Walls are thin.” 

“Oh-- jesus, it's fine. I'm okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yes! Stan was just leaving.” 

Stan freed his hand when he heard this implicit dismissal, stepping backward and attempting to clear his throat. It felt clogged up, and he wasn't sure he would be able to speak when Kyle hung up and looked at him. They were both still hard, but Stan didn't want to fuck Kyle in earshot of Mac, or at all if it was going to be like this, snarling and small. 

“He acts like I'm his little brother,” Kyle said. He sniffled and adjusted his pants, slipped the phone into his pocket. “We moved to Denver at the same time, and we didn't know anyone in the city, so. Sometimes a new partner is like a ready-made family.” 

“Kyle,” Stan said. “I'm sorry. God, what am I even-- see, this. This is why I got paralyzed, back then. Get anywhere close to kissing me and I turn into this tornado of bad decisions.” He'd actually said this to a therapist, once, and he was disgusted with himself anew for repeating it now. “You trusted me tonight, you needed--”

“Don't tell me what I need,” Kyle said, and he grabbed his suit jacket from the back of a chair. “I can't handle Mac hearing half of this through the wall.” He pulled his jacket on and stepped into his shiny black shoes. “C'mon. Let's go.” 

“Where?” Stan asked, his erection wilting. The vague proposition of 'going' with Kyle was frightening. 

“Take me for a drive,” Kyle said. He bent down to blow out the candles, turned off his iPod. “I feel restless. And I don't want to be alone right now, or with anybody but you. _That's_ the South Park that sits on my chest until I can't breathe, you're right. Part of it, anyway. That old 'only Stan will do' feeling.” 

Kyle was out the door before Stan could take him aside and kiss him tenderly, or whatever the hell he was supposed to do in this situation. He barely remembered to grab his gun belt and boots as he followed Kyle out, and he sat down in the hallway to put the boots on while Kyle locked up. Kyle headed for the parking lot before Stan finished tying the laces, and Stan ran to catch up, afraid to lose sight of him. 

“I'm sorry,” Stan said again when they were in his squad car, Stan driving and Kyle riding up front, his arms crossed over his chest and his glazed eyes pointed at the windshield. It was late, a weeknight, and there was already almost no one else on the road. Stan didn't know where he was going; he thought of Stark's Pond and almost laughed, but nowhere else seemed right. “Kyle,” Stan said. “I should have kept all that in. Now's not the time. Tonight shouldn't have become about me.” 

“Don't be an idiot,” Kyle said. “I didn't actually want the whole evening to be a long hashing out of my childhood trauma. That's what therapy is for. And anyway, it's your birthday.”

“Well, yesterday. You know what I mean. I'm having these affairs, you'd hate me if you knew.”

“Ugh,” Kyle said. “Probably. I keep trying to think of who has the same name. Are they both men?”

“Yeah,” Stan said. He wasn't sure they should go down this road, but every turn seemed to be the wrong one, one way or another. 

“Oh, fuck,” Kyle said, and he gave Stan a look. “The other night, at Bennigan's. The way Kevin Stoley was looking at you-- it's not--? 

Stan sighed and looked out at the road. Kyle sort of squawked and burst into laughter. 

“Are you kidding me?” he said. “Kevin is cheating on Clyde with you? Oh my god, oh my god!”

“It's not funny,” Stan said. “I feel really bad about it!” 

Kyle howled with laughter, and at first Stan thought he was doing so to conceal some kind of pain, but when he looked over at Kyle he could tell it was sincere, that Kyle was falling all over himself with hilarity at the thought of Stan making a cuckold of old Clyde and his limp banana dick. 

“Wait, wait,” Kyle said, gasping for breath. “This means, who-- _Wait_.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan said. “Laugh it up.”

“Kevin _McCormick_? Ew, are you serious? How is he even gay?”

“Well, I don't know, Kyle, how is anyone? The same way that me and you are, I guess. Although I'm actually, you know. Bisexual.” 

This seemed to take the wind out of Kyle's sails, or maybe the information about Kenny's brother had. Kyle stared at Stan, frowning. 

“I knew that about you,” Kyle said. “I could tell, though I guess I wouldn't let myself believe I knew for sure. That's what really killed me when you went after Lola. I couldn't convince myself that you were purely doing it out of internalized homophobia and some twisted need to conform. Part of you wanted that, her. The kids, the wedding, all of it.” 

“I don't mean to say I regret everything I've done,” Stan said. “My kids, god, they're everything, I love them so much. You'd love them, too, if you met them.” 

“Probably,” Kyle said, and Stan was surprised. Kyle shrugged when Stan looked over at him. “They probably have your eyes, or some fucking thing.” 

They drove for a while in silence, apart from Kyle's tired little sighs. Stan was nowhere near drunk, but it was still weird to be driving this particular car after a few glasses of wine. He wasn't sure what would happen when they got to Stark's Pond, but he would be okay with just sitting quietly with Kyle all night, and he flexed happily in his seat when Kyle reached over to touch his thigh as they passed the Stark's Pond sign. 

“This is such an old dream,” Kyle said, looking out the window as they pulled around to the far end of the pond, where the gravel road ended. “Coming here with you. In a car, at night, parking.” 

Stan cut the engine and put his hand over Kyle's on his thigh, then held it. This had been where Wayne was conceived, he was pretty sure, in the backseat of Lola's car. He closed his fingers around Kyle's, not quite wanting to go back in time. 

“I wish I had kept all the bad things away from you,” Stan said, meaning Cartman. 

“I wasn't surprised when you became a cop,” Kyle said. “Remember when we made up that game, when you were my knight?”

“Yes.” Stan lifted Kyle's hand and kissed his knuckles. Kyle leaned back against the seat and smiled at him. That summer, when they played their elaborate game with all the neighborhood kids, had been the year after Kyle's 'enslavement' to Cartman. Though Kyle hadn't spoken a word about how bad it actually was, Stan had sensed something, maybe, because he'd been obsessed with protecting Kyle once they were reunited. He would lay in his bed late at night or early in the morning, envisioning elaborate scenarios where he saved Kyle, vanquished Cartman. 

“Do you love them?” Kyle asked. 

“Huh?” Stan thought of his kids, but they'd already covered that. “Who?”

“Kevin. And/or Kevin.” 

“Oh, god, no, they're just friends. Not even that, in Kevin Stoley's case.”

“Just friends,” Kyle said. Stan was still kissing his knuckles, carefully, with the respect a loyal knight might show to his king. “Like me, back then,” Kyle said. 

“No,” Stan said. “You were the one I was in love with. That's why I couldn't touch you. I know it's screwed up, but I'm not seventeen anymore.” 

“Yeah, well,” Kyle said. “Neither am I.” 

Stan let Kyle's hand drop to his thigh again, afraid that this meant Kyle was over it, healed, free of him along with the rest of South Park. Kyle threaded his fingers through Stan's and unfastened his seatbelt. 

“Come here,” Kyle said, but he was the one who leaned onto Stan until their lips were pressed together. This kiss was different, experimental and soft. Stan could taste the wine on Kyle's tongue when his lips parted and their tongues slid together, and they both laughed when Stan tried to get closer and ended up jerking against his seatbelt, which tightened over his chest as if it was bracing to save him from a crash. He reached for the buckle, but before he could release it his radio crackled with a message from the station operator. His radio had broadcast a few routine calls to the officers on shift since they had gotten in the car, but this one was spoken with a kind of urgency that made Kyle go tense, too. 

“Repeat,” the officer said. Stan had already started the car, numbed with dread but unwilling to ignore the all units command, even off duty and with red wine on his breath. “We have a 419 in the wooded area behind Skeeter's Bar on Trillby Avenue, being reported as 187, all units report to the scene.” 

“That's a murder,” Stan said when Kyle fell back into his seat and buckled up, nodding. 

“I know,” Kyle said. 

Stan put the sirens on and they peeled away from Stark's Pond. He told himself that it couldn't be Karen McCormick, not really, but the truth was that it could be anyone they knew, anyone in town, which was also still true about the killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (End Notes linked from the beginning: The abuse is non-penetrative and the abuser is also a child. The discussion of it is toward the end, if you want to skip it; the lead-in is pretty obvious if you'd prefer to skim. There's nothing graphic about the act itself, but the emotional trauma of the survivor is discussed pretty explicitly.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! Getting back into this now, and I've finally worked out a few structural road bumps/settled on a final outline. Yay! Thanks to all who have sent messages and let me know that they've been excited to read more -- it's very appreciated.

With the car’s siren blaring, Stan and Kyle were both silent during the drive to Skeeter’s, and on Stan’s part it was both out of respect for the gravity of the moment and because he didn’t know what to say about another murder while the taste of Kyle was still on his lips. Their kiss had seemed like the beginning of something, but now it felt snipped off and over already, a kind of delirious interlude. Stan was afraid this was the worst kind of omen for what he had hoped was re-growing between them, and also afraid that the victim on the scene would someone he knew. The radio had gone quiet. Though Stan knew that it was ridiculous and that Kyle would be insulted if he learned what he was thinking, he couldn't help feeling like he shouldn't be bringing Kyle, fragile after their talk at the motel and perennially in need of protection, to a gory crime scene in the dead of night.

There was a roadblock on the street that led to Skeeter's, and the officer stationed there waived Stan's cruiser through. Two units were already parked in the bar's small parking lot, sirens quieted but flashing, which was a phenomenon that Stan didn’t typically find so eerie, as if he was seeing the blue and red lights through deep water. Witnesses were milling around too freely while officers attempted to corral them, some of them bar patrons who were holding bottles of Bud and cans of PBR. Stan cursed under his breath and hoped that more backup would arrive soon. He could see from the car that the crowd was a surly one, and knew that at least some of Skeeter's regulars wouldn't be eager to cooperate after a long night of drinking.

"Why is there no FBI on the scene?" Kyle asked.

"I don't know," Stan said, feeling accused.

"Your department has been instructed to report to us!"

"Well, Kyle, there's been a murder. There, now we've reported."

Kyle got out of the car as soon as Stan parked, already pulling out his phone. Stan left him to summon his troops and walked around Skeeter's, his heart pumping harder when he saw flashlight beams in the woods. Only when he noticed their K-9 unit on the scene did he think about the fact that the killer might still be in the area. The woods behind Skeeter's were dense, and they stretched back to the foot of the mountains. If the snow had come earlier this season, there might have been a footpath to track.

There were five uniformed officers beyond the crime scene tape that had been stretched from the Skeeter's dumpster and secured around a skinny tree, and the county coroner stood with the department's lead detective over the corpse of a young man who was propped against a tree, his legs stretched out in front of him. Stan was relieved to spot Bebe among the cops who were gathered at the scene, and he hurried toward the group. He stopped short when he saw the victim illuminated by a field light that had just been flicked on by the assistant coroner. He didn’t recognize the man, whose tongue-less mouth was hanging open, but he was as angry and sickened as he had been at Gary’s brother’s house, and he had to turn away. This man’s wounds weren’t as precise-looking as those on the previous victims had been. It looked as if an animal had ripped him open from his gut to his throat.

"Who is he?" Stan asked when he reached Bebe. She had turned away from the body, but, like Stan, she kept looking back.

"His name is Mark Nelson," Bebe said. "Skeeter says he wasn't drinking at the bar. Nobody heard a scream, but it looks like he was killed here."

"But no witnesses?"

"Not that we know of. Skeeter's dishwasher saw the body when he came out for a smoke."

"How long, um." Stan had to turn away again. There had been a lot of blood at both crimes scenes prior to this one, but this was unreal. “How long ago do they think he was killed?”

“Nobody's told us,” Patrick Stoley said. He was Kevin's younger brother, a rookie. Stan was typically friendly with the rookies, but he tried to avoid Patrick; anything Stoley-Donovan related made him feel guilty. “Couldn't have been more than a couple hours,” Patrick said. “The witness, um, the dish washer? He gets a smoke break every two hours, and the victim wasn't posed out here when he had his ten o'clock break.”

Stan heard the Chief's voice, loud enough to make out clearly from the other side of the building. Bebe shook her head.

“That'll be Kyle pissing him off,” she said.

“Not necessarily,” Stan said. “He, uh, called for backup.”

“You saw him?”

“We came here together,” Stan said, moving away from the others. Bebe followed.

“Good,” she said, after a few paces, hurrying her steps to keep up with Stan's.

“What's good?”

“You and Kyle – never mind. See, I was right.”

Kyle and Chief Yates were arguing in the parking lot, and Stan's heart got heavy when he saw that Kyle was trying to stand up taller without obviously going to his tip-toes, his shoulders back and his scrawny chest presented as widely as possible. Kyle looked almost like a younger, shorter and thinner version of Yates in this light. They both had bright red hair, and both appreciated suspenders.

"Allowing your men to interview my witnesses is a direct violation of your department's protocol," Kyle said. Stan wanted to ease him away from Yates, though not to protect Kyle in this case. He wanted to spare Yates’ pride, and he knew that Kyle wouldn't.

"According to the FBI, I've violated my own protocol?" Yates said. He was pushing up the sleeves on his shirt. Stan knew he wanted to smack Kyle out of the way like a gnat, and that he wouldn't let himself get that out of control. "Good thing I don't answer to your interpretation of my protocol."

"This is clearly connected to the murders we're investigating!" Kyle said. "The tongue on the victim was removed. To treat it otherwise is asinine."

"It could be a copycat. Look how sloppy this was, out in public, completely different from the other two in that respect. I have the responsibility to investigate every homicide that takes place within my jurisdiction--"

"Even if it's a copycat incident, that still places this crime scene in my jurisdiction under federal law, and you know it! This is ridiculous." Kyle swung around to look at Stan.

“Dude,” Stan said. “Calm down.”

Kyle stared at Stan as if he'd just puked all over his shoes. Yates stormed off to bark at some witnesses who were creeping too close to the crime scene tape, and Stan wasn't thrilled to see Mac crossing the parking lot, wearing a suit and looking polished despite the late hour.

"The others are on their way," Mac said. "Why weren't we called?" He was looking at Kyle when he asked, but his gaze quickly shifted to Stan and Bebe.

"Personally?" Bebe said. "I don't have your number. That's above my clearance-level, I guess."

"I was still with Stan when the call came over his radio," Kyle said. He frowned when no one said anything, letting that hang in the air. "So we should be able to salvage, um. This."

Kyle was staring between Mac and Stan's shoulders, distracted by something in the background. Stan was afraid he knew what it would be, considering where they were and that he'd thought he'd heard a familiar voice on his way past the rowdy crowd that had spilled out of Skeeter's. He turned and felt a sort of frightened drop in his gut when he saw Cartman, on Kyle's behalf. The sympathetic sense of terror quickly shifted into rage, and he was glad that he wouldn't personally be involved in interviewing these witnesses. Having an excuse to strong arm Cartman after what he’d heard in Kyle’s motel room would not go well, for him or for Cartman. He just hoped Mac was clued in enough not to make Kyle take Cartman's statement. Kyle was staring at the group in front of the bar with a steely calm, looking as if plans were formulating.

"Everyone here is a potential suspect," he said, quietly and only to Mac, which stung. "I'm going to speak to the coroner for confirmation, but I get the sense this was a recent killing, and that it was committed here, or in the woods nearby."

“Hey,” Stan said when Kyle walked away from Mac, toward the crowd. Kyle's eyes were cold when they met Stan's, maybe only because he had business to do. “Are you okay?” Stan asked, murmuring this. 

“Of course I am,” Kyle said. “Are you?”

“Yeah. I saw the crime scene, it's. Intense.”

“Stan, just help me out, okay? My people are on the way, we're going on handle this, but we need at least some of you to be cooperative.”

“What the hell do you want me to do, Kyle? Yates is my boss. Can't you understand why he's frustrated?”

“Um, no? Not really? I would be fucking relieved to have actual professionals handling this, if I were him.”

“Actual professionals?” 

Kyle's mouth dropped open, but his gaze shifted away from Stan before he could speak.

“Well, well, well!”

Stan turned to see Cartman approaching them, a beer bottle in his hand. He was sneering a kind of smile, his eyes heavily lidded and his gait not entirely balanced.

“I see the two original South Park butt buddies have reunited to, uh, fight crime?” Cartman said. “That's hilarious. Kyle, why are you wearing a fucking tuxedo?”

“It's not a tuxedo, idiot,” Kyle said. “I'm with the FBI.” He actually took out his badge and showed it to Cartman, which made Stan cringe. Fortunately, Kyle didn't seem to notice.

“Woo-hoo-hooo!” Cartman said, rearing backward so dramatically that for a moment Stan thought he would fall over. “They called in actual spooks to find this murdering clown? Well, good luck. He seems to be doing whatever the fuck he wants around here. Who'd he kill this time? Cops wouldn't tell us.”

“Just get over there with the others,” Stan said, pointing. “We – I mean, the FBI will need to take statements from everybody.”

“'Ey, I didn't see shit.” Cartman tried to swig from his beer, and he huffed at the bottle angrily when he found it empty. “How about you let us get on our with our evening while you search the woods for the madman, eh?”

“I won't hesitate to have you arrested if you don't cooperate,” Kyle said. “Go ahead and test me if you feel like it. God, you reek of booze.”

“That's what real men do, Kyle, we drink. We work for a living! Are you seriously – seriously in the fuckin' FBI? That's hilarious. What a night!”

Cartman drifted away before Stan could come up with a cutting remark, his mind too muddled by pure rage, and Kyle stormed off in the opposite direction. Stan started to follow him, concerned, but he stopped in his tracks as Kyle’s comment about ‘actual professionals’ settled onto him fully. Kyle had never taken him seriously; at least not as seriously at Stan took him. He tabled his hurt feelings and refocused on his job, too weary to mentally organize everything that had happened in the past few hours. Most of the patrons of Skeeter’s obeyed his reminders to stay in place. He avoided Cartman, who was sitting on the hood of his car and looking like he’d soon fall asleep there. 

The sun was coming up by the time the last of the witnesses were dismissed. Cartman had given a statement to Mac before leaving, and Kyle had been busy with other witnesses and his cell phone, which seemed to ring every five minutes or so. Stan kept the corner of his eye on him, but had been careful to hang back, not wanting to hover where he wasn’t wanted. He had orders to keep the street clear of traffic until the body had been removed from the scene, and he was drinking coffee to stay awake, doing his best to avoid Bebe's pointed questions.

"What do you mean it got emotional?" she asked once she'd dragged that much out of him. Stan shrugged and stared down into his coffee cup. He wasn't going to tell her, or anyone, about the Cartman thing, but it seemed like such vital information that saying anything else about what went on in Kyle's hotel room would be pointless.

"It's been eleven years and we used to be really close," Stan said. "What did you expect?"

"A slower burn, I guess. Kyle seems so closed up, and you're, um."

"I'm what?"

"Repressed, by nature."

"That's not true! Please, I can't talk about this now, I'm dead on my feet."

"I think we'll be able to go home in an hour or so," Bebe said, nodding to the coroner's van. The assistant was prepping the gurney that would convey the corpse to the morgue. "That is, unless somebody finds this guy and makes an arrest. He's got to be near, Stan."

"They've got the K-9 units in the woods," Stan said. "At least we're allowed to do that."

"Right, we're just too stupid to help them handle eleven drunks who didn't see shit."

"They might have noticed something important, even if they didn't witness the actual crime."

"You sound like Kyle," Bebe said. She took Stan's coffee cup and drank the last cold dregs from the bottom, then winced. "I knew the vic's sister," she said. "I guess you did, too. Remember Patty Nelson, from elementary school?"

"Jesus. Another younger sibling? What the hell is going on?"

"Mark was older than her, actually. But you could be right about this being some kind of pattern. It's a small town, but the fact that these victims all had siblings in our graduating class-- it’s strange."

"I'd forgotten about Patty,” Stan said. He pictured her hearing the news, and tried to imagine what it would be like to get a call in the middle of the night about Shelly. “Didn't her family move away?"

"Yes, years ago, before we finished high school. Mark Nelson didn’t even live here, Stan. His driver’s license is from Arizona. He was brought here. Lured back, or dragged against his will."

"This is fucked up." Stan thought of Ike, but surely the killer's tentacles didn't extend all the way to Europe, and Kyle might have already warned his brother not to respond to any urgent messages to come home. Stan would have to do the same for Shelly, though she would probably think he was crazy. It had been a while since they had talked at all. "I think we should put the remaining siblings who live in South Park under protective custody," he said, searching the lot for Patrick. He was glad to see him leaning against his squad car with his rookie partner, yawning. He thought of calling Kevin, but Patrick had a gun on his hip and probably didn’t need his older brother getting hysterical with worry over Stan’s unproven theory. "Text Kenny," Stan said. "Make sure he's watching over Karen."

Bebe confirmed that he was, and in less than an hour the coroner had left the scene with the victim’s body. Kyle was conferring with Mac and two other agents when Yates gave Stan the okay to go home and rest up before his next shift. It seemed wrong to leave without saying goodbye to Kyle, but he looked busy, and Stan didn’t want to interrupt and end up humiliated by a dismissive response. He climbed into his cruiser and pulled out his phone to send Kyle a text. Exhausted and still rattled by the sight of Mark Nelson’s body in the woods, all he could come up with was _you ok?_

 _Fine_ , Kyle sent back. Stan waited for more, but that was it. He started his car, not sure if he should be worried or infuriated by Kyle's one-word answer. He told himself that Kyle was just busy, that he would get in touch later, that he was truly fine and that he might even be open to being kissed again, though the moments when they’d groped for each other in the motel room and the car already seemed more surreal that the third dead body he’d seen in recent weeks.

At home, he tried to get to sleep without a shower, but after he’d tossed and turned for twenty minutes he decided he needed the ritual of cleaning the awful morning off of his skin before he would be able to rest. He was quickly asleep once he got in bed, but his peaceful rest was brief. Then the nightmares came: a man in the woods, just out of sight, trailing blood that wasn’t his own. Stan dreamed that the body they found at the base of that tree was Shelly’s, Ike’s, Karen’s. The dream that finally shook him from his attempt to sleep through the day was one about Kyle. He wasn’t a kid anymore, but he was trapped in Cartman’s childhood bedroom, and Stan couldn’t get him out. Every time he grabbed for the door knob it burned his hand, and even as Stan’s skin started peeling away from his palm, melting and raw, he kept trying to hold the knob long enough to turn it. He could hear Cartman laughing inside, and Kyle crying.

When he got out of bed he had no appetite, still rattled by a stomach-churning combination of reality and those bad dreams, but he forced himself to toast a bagel and spread some cream cheese on it. After the first bite he realized he was ravenous, and he ate so fast that he gave himself a stomachache. He checked his phone, hoping for a message Kyle, but the only one he had was from Lola:

_Heard the news. Hang in there. Kids are okay, but we’re all a little freaked out._

Stan thought about calling her, but he just sat staring at his phone and feeling guilty for his seeming inability to do anything to stop what was happening. He planned to talk to Patrick Stoley later, when he was back on shift, about the sibling theory. In the meantime, he trusted Kenny to take care of Karen and Kevin. He sent Shelly a text message asking her to call him, and then realized there was one thing he could do, a kind of sly investigation of his own. After the way things had played out at the crime scene, he enjoyed the idea that Kyle would be annoyed if he knew whose number he was dialing, and why. Gary picked up on the second ring.

“I just heard,” Gary said. “Another victim. Horrible.”

“It’s unreal,” Stan said. “I thought for sure we’d be able to track the killer, because it looks like this murder was done almost in public, at the edge of the woods. So far they haven’t found anything, but they’ve still got K-9 units and FBI agents searching the area.” 

“What a nightmare for the community. We’re all heartbroken over here, praying a lot.”

“We’re going to catch him,” Stan said, his voice flickering a little. “Gary, god, I’m so sorry I missed your brother’s funeral. It’s just been so crazy, at the station, and, um. Some personal things, too--” 

“Stan, there’s really no need to apologize. We were overwhelmed by the whole experience, I’d honestly forgotten you were planning to come. But I completely understand.” 

“Are you busy right now?” Stan asked. “I was thinking about getting some coffee, going over my notes. We haven’t really gotten a chance to talk yet, you and me.” 

“Yes, let’s do it. Maybe I could be helpful. I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to figure out how David could fit into this person’s plan-- because there does seem to be some kind of plan, you know?

“I know. Where do you want to meet?”

They decided on the Village Inn, and when Stan arrived he almost expected that old group of Goth kids to be sulking in their usual corner booth, but they had all left town years ago. Stan could only hope none of them would be dragged back, either for a sibling’s funeral or to become a victim the way Mark Nelson had. It sat heavy in the back of Stan’s mind as he headed toward the booth where Gary was waiting: Mark Nelson had thought he’d escaped South Park, left it behind, but something here had come for him. 

“Stan,” Gary said, smiling when he spotted him. He looked tired but good, like he always had, still with a full head of blond hair. Stan was surprised when Gary hugged him, though Gary had always been a hugger. They had reconnected in high school, and though they were never particularly close, Gary had been easy to talk to when Stan felt like he was unable to confide in Kyle about certain things. 

“How are you holding up?” Stan asked after he’d ordered a coffee and a danish, still hungry. Gary was having tea. 

“I don’t think it’s really hit me yet,” Gary said. “Even with the funeral, it doesn’t feel like he’s gone. I guess I’m distracted by my mother, and David’s wife-- well, his widow, and their kids. Trying to be there for them, you know? I’m afraid none of us will feel any sense of closure until the person who did this is caught, and even then we may never know why. It’s so hard to comprehend, the idea of taking a life. It’s all just-- senseless.”

“I know,” Stan said. “Has the FBI kept in touch with your family, about developments?”

“They’ve said they want to interview David’s wife again, but it hasn’t happened yet. With another murder to investigate, I’m afraid they may need to send more agents. How’s Kyle doing, by the way? Is he optimistic about the investigation so far?”

“Mhmm, probably. He’s pretty arrogant these days.” Stan felt bad for saying so, but it was also a relief, after what Kyle had said at the crime scene. Gary smiled. 

“He was always a confident guy. But that’s good, and I know he’s smart. I’m not surprised that he ended up working for the federal government.” 

Stan laughed. “Me either,” he said. “When you put it like that-- yeah.”

“I’m also not surprised to see you in local law enforcement. And I hope you’ll take that as a compliment. It’s a very important job.” 

“Well, sure. I like it, most of the time.” 

“It must be taking a toll, seeing this kind of horror happen on the job.” 

“I’m okay.” Stan wasn’t going to complain about his nightmares to a guy whose brother had just been violently murdered. “I did want to talk to you about the investigation, though, if that’s alright. I just want to feel like I’m doing everything I can.” 

“Of course, sure. What do you need from me?”

“I know you don’t have any idea who would did this to David, or why, but what about other factors in his life recently? Anything strange at all that you know of? Have you talked much with his wife about what their daily routine was like before the murder?”

Gary sighed and turned his teacup between his hands, shaking his head. 

“We’ve poured over recent events with her,” he said. “My mother and I have even talked to the kids, asking them if anything strange had happened recently. I went through David’s emails, his phone-- it’s something to do, you know? But I haven’t been able to find anything. The phone’s with the FBI now, of course. His computer, too. Maybe they’ll see something I didn’t.” 

“Damn.” Stan crumpled a napkin into his fist, feeling foolish. He’d been naive to think that having coffee with Gary might result in some kind of breakthrough that the FBI had missed. “Has Kyle talked to you about my theory?”

“Which theory is that?”

“I just noticed that the first two victims had younger siblings in our graduating class. And now this third guy, Mark Nelson-- his younger sister was Patty. Remember her?”

“Oh.” Gary’s face fell, and he slumped back against the booth. “I didn’t, um. They hadn’t released the latest victim’s name to the public yet. I didn’t know it was-- it was Mark, really?”

“You knew him?”

“We played baseball together.” Gary gulped from his tea. His eyes got pink-rimmed for a minute, and Stan looked down to study his empty plate. 

“I’m so sorry, Gary,” he said. “We’re going to find whoever did this, I promise.” He scoffed when he heard himself. “I mean, the FBI will. With our help, if they need it.” 

“I’m sure they’ll need your local knowledge,” Gary said, and he cleared his throat. “That’s valuable. Oh, hey.” He nodded toward the door. “Speaking of them.”

Stan turned to see Kyle and Mac walking into the diner. Kyle was talking quickly and at a low volume; Mac leaned in to listen, nodding. Stan grunted and threw back the rest of his coffee, not sure if he was pleased that Kyle would see him here with Gary or not.

“Hello!” Gary said, waving them over. “Stan and I were just talking about the awful news.”

“Yes, it is awful,” Kyle said. He glanced at Stan, then looked back to Gary. 

“Mark was a friend,” Gary said, more quietly. Kyle’s eyebrows went up.

“You’re disclosing information about the case to the general public?” Kyle said, frowning at Stan. “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours!”

“Kyle, that crime scene was crawling with witnesses. I’m sorry, okay? I wasn’t thinking, but. Gary is, you know. Involved.” 

“And you’re interviewing him?” Mac said, his tone as humorless as Kyle’s. They both had bags under their eyes. 

“Oh, no,” Gary said. “Don’t misunderstand, please. Stan and I are old friends. Kyle, you know that.”

“Right,” Kyle said. He gave Stan an appraising stare and straightened his tie. 

“You look like you need sleep,” Stan said. It came out a little more sharply than he’d intended. He wanted to grab Kyle, to coddle him after that hellish night and the encounter with Cartman, and to spank him on the ass for being such a petulant shit in the presence of Mac. Imagining the latter scenario was unexpectedly arousing; Stan wished Kyle and Mac would leave. He wanted to see Kyle, needed to talk to him and try to parse what had happened, but this wasn’t the place for that, and he was tired of the way Kyle was looking at him, as if he was some kind of errant hillbilly.

“We’re getting our coffee to go,” Mac said, tugging on Kyle’s arm. They shared a look that pierced Stan’s heart; there was a time when he’d cornered the market on communicating things to Kyle without speaking. Kyle nodded once and sighed.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s true, I’m overtired. Gary, I’m sorry you lost a friend. That’s horrible, after, um. Your brother. We’re doing everything we can.”

“I’m sure you are, Kyle. You guys let me know if you need anything from me, okay? Not that I’ve been much help so far.” 

“We’ll be in touch,” Mac said, and he pulled Kyle away from the table, toward the to-go ordering counter. Stan didn’t like it, but not because he didn’t think Mac had Kyle’s best interests at heart. He hated the thought of that guy taking Kyle back to the motel, making sure he ate something, helping him take off his jacket.

“Are you okay, bud?” Gary asked when Stan hunched over his empty coffee mug, fighting the urge to turn and look at Mac and Kyle while they waited for their order. 

“I’m fine,” Stan said. “Just a little rattled, I guess.” 

“Of course. What a nightmare.” Gary shook his head, and for a while they sat in awkward silence. “How’s your sister doing?” Gary asked. 

“Shelly’s fine. She’s, you know, she lives up in Washington, in Spokane. My mom’s up there now, too.” 

“I’m sorry again about your father’s passing.” 

“Thanks.”

Gary had sent a card when Randy died. Kyle hadn’t. Stan ordered another cup of coffee and stewed over this while Gary talked about his wife and kids back in Utah. Not hearing from Kyle back then had made Stan mad, but it hadn’t really surprised him, and he’d been too preoccupied with his mother’s grief to fixate on it at the time. Now it seemed egregious, and he planned to bring it up later, if Kyle was even willing to talk to him privately again. What had happened in the motel room and by Stark’s Pond already felt like part of some bizarre dream Stan had been having since he busted into Ruby Tucker’s apartment with Bebe. 

Shelly returned Stan’s call just as he was pulling into the station’s lot for his shift. She sounded exasperated and spoke to Stan as if he was still a kid, as usual.

“Mom’s freaking out,” she said. “She wants you to call her.”

“I know,” Stan said. “I got her messages. I’ve been busy, there’s a lot going on.” 

“Yeah, no shit. I saw it on the national news this morning. Seems like somebody’s in a hurry to wipe out the whole town.” 

“It’s not totally indiscriminate. Not by my accounting, anyway. That’s why I called you. Everybody who’s been killed has a sibling in my graduating class. Well, I guess it’s more like, my old elementary school class? Because one of them moved away before graduation, but--”

“Stan, what the hell are you rambling about? Are you trying to say I’m in danger?”

“No, but. Maybe? I don’t know, just be vigilant. Steer clear of South Park.” 

“Yeah, I was kind of planning to already. You should watch your back down there, if someone’s killing off your old classmates like it’s ‘I Know What You Did Last Summer’ or some shit.” 

“Not my old classmates, their siblings.” 

“That’s really weird, Stan.” 

“Yeah, no shit!”

“How are you, by the way? How are the kids?”

“They’re fine. Wayne got in trouble for drinking beer with a friend. But they’re fine.” 

“You’d better watch that, with him.” 

“I know,” Stan said. He had no idea why he’d brought it up; he was going to be late for his shift and needed to wrap up the call, but with everything that had happened he was actually feeling a little nostalgic for his sister’s sarcastic remarks.

“‘Cause, you know-- Dad,” Shelly said. “And the whole family has a history of addictive behavior. The men, anyway.”

“No kidding! It’s under control, trust me. I gotta go. Tell Mom I’ll call her soon.” 

“Alright. She wants to know if you’re seeing anyone.” 

“Ugh.” Stan thought of Kyle, then the Kevins. “No.”

“How’s Lola?”

“She’s fine. Why?”

“Why? Why not? You were married to her for eleven years. She’s the mother of your children.”

“You never liked her, though.” 

“I didn’t dislike her. She just bored me, like most South Park people. I thought you had to get off the phone?”

“I did-- I do! Bye.”

“Later. Stay alive.” 

After clocking in at his computer, Stan headed directly for Yates’ office. He knew he would probably get barked at, possibly laughed at, but he wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t make every effort to keep the remaining siblings safe. He paused outside the office door and considered conscripting Bebe to back him up, then told himself to stop being such a noodly wimp-ass, as Shelly might have said, and knocked.

“Sir?” Stan said when he poked his head inside the office. Yates looked murderous already; probably he hadn’t slept. Stan remained in the doorway and reconsidered his plan.

“Marsh,” Yates said, running a hand over his face. “What now?”

“It’s about the murder investigation,” Stan said. Yates sat up straighter when Stan closed the office door behind him. “It’s a pattern I’ve noticed about the victims. I mentioned it to the FBI.” 

Yates scoffed, and Stan wondered if he shouldn’t have disclosed that part. He’d always gotten the sense that Yates liked him but also didn’t expect much out of him. 

“What kind of pattern?” Yates asked. 

“They all had siblings in my year at school. Mine and Bebe’s, um, and Kenny’s--”

“Kenny?”

“The funeral director, Kenny McCormick.”

“Oh, him. I thought you were talking about another officer. Well, if the FBI knows your brilliant theory, I suppose you’ve done your job. Since they run the investigation and my whole goddamn jurisdiction, as far as they’re concerned.”

“What I was thinking,” Stan said, “Is that we could do something ourselves to protect potential future victims. Our department could, I mean. You know, so we’d still be doing our part.” Stan cleared his throat when Yates just stared at him, frowning. “There are three other siblings from my class still living in South Park. Karen and Kevin McCormick, and Patrick Stoley.” 

“The rookie?”

“Yeah. His brother Kevin graduated with us.” Stan’s face got hot when an unwanted mental image of Kevin riding his dick while he was still in full uniform flashed through his mind.

“This is not making a lot of sense to me, Marsh. Why would the killer target siblings from a particular group?” 

“I don’t know, sir. Why would he cut out their tongues? I’m sure he does a lot of things that don’t make sense to you and me. I mean--” Stan’s face got hotter, and he resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose when Yates continued giving him an unhappy stare. “I mean, obviously.” 

“How big was your graduating class?” Yates asked. 

“We had fifty-three in high school, but that’s the thing. Mark Nelson’s sister had moved away by then-- that whole family had. I think the last grade his sister and I were in together was fifth, but it was the same kids all through elementary school. I think there were were about twenty of us-- twenty-four, twenty-five? And out of that twenty or so people, three of us have had siblings killed in the past ten days.”

Yates was quiet for a while, tapping the cap of a pen against his desk. When he began to nod slowly, Stan wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or concerned. 

“That’s interesting,” Yates said. “Interesting line of thought, Marsh. I have to admit, I don’t see how it lines up with motive, unless there’s some kind of history with one class member harming another’s sibling?”

“No, nothing like that. Nothing serious, anyway, that I could think of. I’ll admit, I can’t see how it lines up with motive either. I thought it might just be a coincidence when David Harrison was killed, but now the third victim is also a sibling from our class, and one who didn’t even live in town anymore, as I understand it. It’s alarming, um, to imagine that the three others who live here could be in danger.” 

“Shit.” Yates sat back and puffed out his chest, folding his hands behind his head. “I’m tired of this asshole always being one step ahead of us. Maybe you’re on to something, maybe not. Couldn’t hurt to put three people in protective custody until the FBI takes their heads out of their asses and finds this perp. And with one of the people going into custody being a cop, we wouldn’t have to give up a uniform on duty to watch over them, except when he sleeps. Unless you think the rookie couldn’t handle that?”

“Patrick probably could.” 

“Get him in here. Let’s see what he thinks.” 

Stan could tell right away that Patrick didn’t like the idea, and that he wasn’t going to show it in front of the Chief. That Yates did a poor job of re-explaining Stan’s theory didn’t help. Yates sounded like he was desperate to have something to do with the investigation, even if it was just massively inconveniencing three people who had something in common with the victims. Patrick nodded a lot during their meeting, his lips pressed together in a tight line.

“I’ll work out the mechanics of this tonight,” Yates said. “Marsh, you get started on the paperwork. Inform the other two-- the McCormicks, right?”

“Right.” Stan glanced over at Patrick, but he kept his gaze pointed at Yates’ desk. There were moments in Stan’s life when he felt acutely like the man he’d once viewed his father to be: over-reactive, melodramatic, reckless. He reminded himself that this was a precaution worth taking and pushed the thoughts of Randy’s antics away. Yates dismissed them, and Stan followed Patrick back out into the station. 

“Um,” Patrick said when they were twenty paces away from Yates’ office, and he turned to Stan. “Just what the hell, now?”

“I know it’s a long shot.” Stan also knew that he shouldn’t let a rookie talk to him like that, but he’d never been big on pulling rank. “And I’m sorry, man, but it’s better safe than sorry, with the way things have been going.” 

“How long is this going to last?” Patrick asked. He was frowning, incredulous. 

“I don’t know. Just think of it as safehouse duty, right? Or paid vacation. A little of both.” 

“This is nuts,” Patrick said. “No offense.” 

He spoke sharply, as if he did want to offend, and Stan was surprised. He’d never seen Patrick get cocky around senior officers. 

“Well,” Stan said. “You have your orders. So complaining to me isn’t going to make a difference.” 

Patrick was fuming, and Stan could see him weighing whether or not to risk saying more. He was better looking than Kevin, and taller, and according to Kevin he got around. Stan assumed Patrick was thinking about the weeks of celibacy involved with protective custody, among other disruptions to his normal routine. 

“I know about you and my brother,” Patrick said, quietly. Stan was so taken off guard by this that at first he just nodded, not really hearing it. Then his heart dropped, and he had a moment of panic wherein he wasn’t really sure what his terror was for-- Kyle knew, Kevin McCormick didn’t care, and Clyde’s potential heartbreak was guilt-inducing, but Stan wasn’t the one who’d made a commitment to him. He’d been single during the whole affair. 

“Well,” Stan said. He glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot. “That’s. Neither here nor there--”

“Like hell it’s not,” Patrick said. “You want to put the McCormicks on lockdown until this is over? Fine, but I’m a police officer. I don’t need that shit.” 

“You’ve been assigned to guard them,” Stan said, lowering his voice. “And I don’t care what you think you know about me and your brother, you need to start watching your tone unless want a write up in addition to an assignment that you don’t like.” 

Patrick scoffed and walked away, probably to vent to the other rookies, who would certainly take his side. Stan’s heart was pounding. He still had an hour before rounds with Bebe, but he slipped outside to make a phone call instead of starting the paperwork for the protective custody order. He was relieved when Kevin Stoley-Donovan didn’t answer his phone, but couldn’t resist leaving a message.

“Hey,” Stan said. “Just found out you told your little brother about the situation. What the fuck? What’s the matter with you, you want to get caught? This is done, okay? I guess you don’t give a shit about your husband’s feelings, but I’ve got kids who don’t even know about me-- and I thought part of our arrangement was that neither of us wanted to be gossiped about. Jesus. Sorry, I’m just-- really confused. Bye.” 

He hung up, hating that he’d described himself as ‘confused’ to Kevin, because Kevin would probably use it against him somehow. He was still preoccupied with this revelation during his shift, and was annoyed when Bebe’s response to his fury was an eye roll. 

“Stan, who cares?” she said. “Tell the little prick that he should be protecting his brother’s privacy, and that if he thinks he can threaten you with exposing your affair, he’s wrong.” 

“That is what I told him. Thanks for the sympathy, in the meantime.”

“You slept with a married man! Get over yourself.” 

“What’s your problem?” Stan asked, though he knew she was right. 

“I’m over-tired,” Bebe said. “And frustrated by what’s going on. But I think it’s good that we’re putting Kevin and Karen into custody. Patrick, too. I’ll take some of the shifts at the safehouse, when Patrick needs to rest.”

“Kenny’s going to want to come with you, with his brother and sister there.” 

“Maybe.” 

Stan waited to hear more, not sure what the status of Bebe and Kenny’s whatever was at present, but she didn’t elaborate. She seemed annoyed with Stan, who in turn got annoyed with her, and they were both quiet for the remainder of their uneventful shift. 

Back at the station, Stan did a half-assed job of finishing the night’s paperwork and headed home without saying goodnight to Bebe or anyone else. He felt like he would be tired for the rest of his life, like this miasma of confused exhaustion was simply his new mode of existence. It had been that way when Wayne was born, and again when they brought Evan home. That was different, though; Stan had felt so capable even during his most sleepless, disorienting days. He’d had a single goal then: get the baby and Lola what they needed, be there for them, be as awake as possible so that everyone stayed safe. Doing that successfully had made his lack of energy almost pleasant at times. He was working toward something then, selfless and driven. This was different: there was nothing he could do beyond suggesting that the McCormick siblings and Patrick were somewhere out of harm’s way. He couldn’t stop the killer from finding other people to hurt, or shake the feeling that whoever had done this was only getting started.

He thought he was hallucinating when he pulled into his driveway and saw Kyle sitting on the steps of his small front porch with a six-pack of beer in his lap. Kyle had his jacket on but no coat, and he was hunched around the beer like he was cold, his shoulders curled inward. He looked small, sitting under the halo of Stan’s front porch light by himself, like a kid. Stan hurried out of the car, and he felt like an idiot when Kyle smiled at the sight of him jogging up the front walk. 

“What’s the matter?” Stan asked. 

“Nothing,” Kyle said. He stood and held out the six pack. “This is an apology,” he said when Stan took it. “For being short with you this morning, at the crime scene and in that diner. I was able to get some sleep, earlier. You look like you could use some.” 

“Come in,” Stan said, fighting the urge to hug Kyle. “You shouldn’t be out here, uh. Where’s your car?” 

“Mac dropped me off.”

“How long were you waiting?”

“I don’t know, not long. Half an hour.” 

“Jesus, Kyle! It’s cold out. C’mon, get inside.”

It was strange to flip on the lights in the foyer and have Kyle be able to see Stan’s house, the way he lived now: it was sometimes strange even to Stan, coming home to a place where the kids and Lola weren’t there to greet him, everything dark and belonging solely to him, all the rooms quiet until he returned to wake them up. Kyle walked ahead of him and looked around, shamelessly interested. Stan put the beers in the fridge and wondered what Kyle’s apartment in Denver looked like. He pictured something out of a slick crime procedural show: carefully decorated and spotless, stainless steel appliances, framed paintings of modern art. Stan still hadn’t gotten around to hanging pictures.

“Was there any new evidence found?” Stan asked, popping open two beers at the counter.

“No,” Kyle said. “But there will be another sweep of the woods in the morning. Look, um. Do you mind if we don’t talk about work? I spent all day with blood splatter analyses and ten witness statements from drunks at that bar--”

“Fine, yeah.” Stan thought about the fact that Cartman was one of the drunks who gave a witness statement, and he squeezed Kyle’s shoulder after handing him his beer. “I’m glad you were able to get some rest.” 

“Stan,” Kyle said, very softly, and Stan closed his eyes when Kyle touched his cheek. “Fuck, I should have waited until tomorrow. You don’t have to host me or whatever. You’re tired, I know.” 

“Just let me take a shower,” Stan said, and he gulped from his beer, wondering if Kyle wanted a shower, too. “Stay, though. Will you?”

“Of course.” Kyle grinned and took his hand from Stan’s cheek. “Last night, when we got called to the scene at the bar-- I felt so unfinished. With everything.” 

“I know.” Stan wasn’t sure if he should kiss Kyle yet; it still seemed like something that should be worked up to during each new encounter, and it was possible that Kyle regretted what happened at the motel room and in the car and had come here with beer to apologize for that, too. Stan looked around the kitchen, wanting to offer Kyle something to eat. “I think I have some raviolis in the freezer,” he said. 

“I already had dinner. Go have your shower. I’ll entertain myself.” 

It was weird to undress in his bedroom while Kyle was out in his kitchen, drinking beer and looking at his phone. Stan left the bedroom door open just a little, as a gesture of trust. He didn’t take his boxers off until he was in the attached bathroom, however, with the door closed. Standing under the hot water, he looked down at his cock and imagined Kyle seeing it, having an opinion about it, maybe liking it. This made him hard, but only partially. He was nervous; Kevin Stoley-Donovan had been slobbering for him by the time they finally got together, and Stan had always been confident that he compared favorably to Clyde. Kevin McCormick was the least judgemental person Stan had ever met and had been patient enough to endure teeth scrapes when he taught Stan how to give a blow job. Stan had never been with a man like Kyle who would have standards and expectations. Plus, he was Kyle: _the_ Kyle, _Stan’s_ Kyle, even after all this time, and that was a different kind of pressure that only compounded the other. 

Stan walked out of his bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, and he wasn’t sure if he was surprised to find Kyle in his bedroom, sitting on the bed. Kyle had removed his jacket and was smiling, sheepish. His suspenders were navy blue, and Stan tried to remember if these were the same ones he’d worn in the motel room. 

“That guy today,” Kyle said when Stan stood in the doorway of the bathroom, not sure how to proceed. “The victim, the dead man? I don’t know, dude, life is short. I thought about you all day.” 

“Me too,” Stan said. “About, you know. How we kissed.” 

Kyle stood. Stan felt like an idiot for being afraid, but he couldn’t deny that he was. It was the same fear that had stopped him that morning when they were in high school, and he was terrified that Kyle would ask him again, ‘do you want to?’ and that he would again say the wrong thing. The night before had been different: they’d been drinking that wine, and the motel room had felt like a stage in some play. This was Stan’s house, his actual life, and Kyle was here in his bedroom, putting his hands on Stan’s naked waist. 

“You’re still so fucking good looking,” Kyle said, and he seemed a little angry about this when he looked up into Stan’s eyes. Stan’s hair was wet, his bangs dripping onto Kyle’s face when Stan pulled him closer. Kyle blinked and let Stan wipe his cheeks dry as if he was brushing away tears. 

“Every time I see you I’m afraid you can’t be really be here,” Stan said. “Which is so weird, because you used to be my most familiar thing. I rolled over or turned around and you were always just there.” 

“Yeah.” Kyle’s eyes darkened, and Stan leaned in to kiss his nose. “I was just there, back then. I know. I felt that, from you.” 

“Dude, shut up. You know you were the most important person in my life since the fucking cradle. I never thought I could lose you. And then you were just gone.” 

“You needed it. We both did, I guess. Look, now we’re all grown up.” Kyle’s hands were on Stan’s towel, then on his stomach, his fingertips brushing through the damp trail of hair under Stan’s belly button. “Let me suck your dick,” Kyle said, whispering this. “I think you need it.” 

“Yeah,” Stan said, because suddenly he definitely did. Kyle surged up to kiss him, and when Stan sighed into Kyle’s mouth it felt like the first time he’d been able to exhale all day. 

It occurred to Stan, when Kyle sank to his knees, that he’d never had his cock sucked by someone wearing a tie, let alone suspenders. It was exhilarating, and he was shaking with an adrenaline-heavy head rush when he dropped his towel and showed Kyle his erection. Kyle tipped his head back and gave Stan such a serious look that Stan was afraid he would say he had changed his mind. 

“I don’t do this often,” Kyle said. “Or ever, really. It’s just, you know, we’re both stressed out. Let’s give each other a pass and do what we want.”

“Yes,” Stan said, though this left him feeling frightened again. He didn’t want to give or get passes. He wanted to start making claims and plans together. “Okay.” 

“Because you do want me,” Kyle said, tracing his fingertips up the length of Stan’s dick, then around his cockhead. “I know you do.” 

“Kyle--”

“I knew back then, too.” 

“Yeah, I did, you just, you’re so--”

Kyle put his mouth on Stan’s cock, and that ate up his thought process. Even in the middle of speaking, he hadn’t known what he was going to say: you’re so what? He’d never had the right words for Kyle, or for the particular combination of security and excitement that flared in his chest when Kyle was near. This was a whole new level: his dick was in Kyle’s mouth, Kyle’s lips were stretched around the width of it, his red eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks while he bobbed his head. Kyle’s mouth was very wet, and Stan didn’t last long against the silky heat of his tongue. Feeling Kyle swallow his come made his eyes burn. It seemed both impossible and like a prophecy that had finally been realized.

“Jesus,” Stan said, pulling Kyle up to kiss him. “Was that, um. Part of the apology?” 

“No,” Kyle said. He was hard inside his pants, adjusting his belt. “That was for me. For sixteen-year-old me and current me. They have the same taste in small town cock, turns out.” 

“Don’t call me a small town cock,” Stan said, but he was grinning; he couldn’t help it. He palmed Kyle through his pants and put his lips against Kyle’s ear. “Get on the bed,” he said. “I want to do you.” 

“Do me?” Kyle snorted. Stan could see his cheeks getting red even in the low light that spilled into the bedroom from the bathroom. “I hope you mean you’re going to suck my dick.”

“Of course that’s what I mean.”

“Good. I was afraid you thought you were going to get to fuck my ass. Like you’ve earned that yet.” Kyle was backing toward the bed, loosening his tie. Stan’s cock throbbed when he let himself hear that _yet_ , like Kyle’s ass was already forthcoming, pending negotiation.

Stan hadn’t actually seen Kyle’s full-grown cock before, but he felt like he had when he knelt on the floor and yanked Kyle’s legs open around him, like Kyle’s leaking dick was another familiar artifact that had been returned to him. Kyle was stretched out on his back, his pants open but not pulled down, his cock poking out through the slit in his boxer briefs. Stan teased him in little licks, watching Kyle’s face. He was breathing through his nose, eyelids fluttering, his hands opening and closing around Stan’s unmade bedsheets. 

“Tell me you haven’t done this for fucking Kevin Stoley,” Kyle said just as Stan moved up to take him in fully. 

“I have,” Stan said. “But not often. He was more of a rim job guy.”

“Ugh, Stan!” Kyle sat up on his elbows, his chest heaving under his still-buttoned shirt. “That’s disgusting. I mean, not the act itself. The idea of your mouth on Kevin’s-- ugh.

“What? I like doing it.” Stan smirked when Kyle’s face blazed. 

“I’ll just file that information away for now,” Kyle said. 

“Kay,” Stan said, and he took Kyle into his mouth at last, liking the taste of him even better when his whole mouth was full of it. He felt it all the way down his spine when Kyle groaned, and Kyle shivered when Stan pressed his flexing hips down to the mattress. 

_It’s so good with you_ , Stan wanted to say, but his mouth was full and he wasn’t willing to pull off yet. He was also afraid he might get emotional if he said that out loud, because it was so true that his ribs ached.

For swallowing Kyle’s come, Stan earned the right to undress him. Kyle stayed on his back while Stan carefully removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, both of them beginning to breathe more evenly. Between every newly opened button, Stan kissed Kyle’s pale chest. Kyle had his hands in Stan’s hair, and Stan wanted to believe that his grip was possessive. 

“Would you sleep here?” Stan asked. “I need the company. I hate being alone here at night. I’m five years old.” 

“You’re sweet,” Kyle said, and his hands dropped to the mattress when Stan pulled his suspenders down. “Of course I’ll stay. That motel gives me the creeps.” 

Kyle sat up and unbuckled his belt. Stan flopped onto his side and watched Kyle shrug his shirt off and push his pants down, transfixed by his presence and trying to memorize how he smelled, post-orgasm. Kyle got under the bedsheets quickly, still wearing his boxer briefs. There had been a considerable red bush poking through the slit of his briefs when he had his dick out, and Stan wanted to run his fingers through it, but maybe he hadn’t earned that yet. 

“I’m going to leave the light on,” Stan said, referring to the one in the bathroom. “So that you won’t be confused when you wake up. If you have to pee, or just. If you don’t know where you are for a second.”

“How thoughtful,” Kyle said, scooting into Stan’s arms. He was teasing, but he melted against Stan so completely that Stan took this as a sincere compliment. Kyle used to be so impressed by the dumb, childish things Stan did. Stan had always been waiting for Kyle to figure out that he wasn’t impressive at all, and had assumed that was part of Kyle’s disillusionment as high school ended and their friendship fizzled into nothing. He squeezed Kyle against him and kissed his hair, stroked his back. 

“You didn’t call when my father died,” Stan said. He’d intended to be angry about this when he brought it up, but he was too calm and cozy to be anything but curious now. “You didn’t even send a card.” 

“I know,” Kyle said. “I didn’t hear about it until a few months after the funeral, and then I just felt like-- Like no gesture would be big enough. Like you had so many people around you who loved you, and I was just this stranger living in another part of the country. This is stupid, but I think I was afraid you would be mad to hear from me. Like you’d think it wasn’t any of my business. I’m sorry.” 

“It doesn’t matter. God, I missed sharing a bed with you.” Stan buried his face in Kyle’s hair and closed his eyes, confident that he would finally sleep through the night. He considered telling Kyle about his last really bad dream, the one about Cartman’s bedroom, then thought he‘d better not. “I wanted to kill Cartman,” he said instead. “At the crime scene this morning. Did you?”

“Want to kill him?” Kyle shrugged. “No, he’s not worth it. But I’m still looking into the fact that he might be involved in this.”

“Was it horrible to see him?”

“Well. It wasn’t great.” 

Kyle clutched at Stan more tightly, and Stan did the same, gathering Kyle in until his breath was hot against Stan’s throat. 

“It’s crazy,” Stan said, not wanting Cartman to be the last thing they talked about before sleep. “You’re here. You’re back.” 

“You know what the problem was, back then, with me and you?” Kyle asked, and Stan felt him stiffen. “It was always too big, too special. It was goddamn unwieldy, how much I wanted from you. I didn’t have a shelf to put it on. It couldn’t be on a shelf, it had to be everything or nothing. That’s why it was nothing, when I got confirmation that it couldn’t be everything.” 

“Kyle.” Stan wished he was more awake for this. He was fading fast, his muscles loosening around the shape of Kyle in his arms. He’d never been more tired or more ready for sleep.

“No, but it’s okay,” Kyle said. “That was back then, I was a kid. I’ve lived now, you know. I’ve matured.”

Stan was going to ask if this meant that he could now be put on a shelf, and that he would be when Kyle was done here, but he was too drowsy to make sense of that question in his own head, let alone out loud. He sighed into Kyle’s hair and let himself drift to sleep, allowing everything upsetting to peel away, until all he could hold in his head was the distant knowledge that Kyle was with him like a nightlight, glowing around the edges of everything dark.


	7. Chapter 7

Stan had forgotten how hot Kyle got during cold October nights, under blankets. When they were kids their backs had sometimes touched in bed, Kyle’s curved one way and Stan’s the other. Stan would wake up sweating and move away, but as soon as he scooted free of Kyle’s human furnace of a body he’d feel cold again, and would wiggle back into place against him. This was still true, he found.

“You fidget too much,” Kyle murmured when Stan moved against him in the morning, both of them only partially awake. “I forgot about that.”

“Did you really forget?” Stan asked. Kyle smiled and closed his eyes again. The light through his mostly-closed blinds was gray, and Stan assumed it was close to dawn, but he couldn't get back to sleep after opening his eyes to find Kyle still in his bed.

“I can smell your sweat,” Kyle said, whispering it like a secret.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s good. Because you showered before bed, then you ejaculated. That’s, like, the perfect recipe for some good-smelling, early morning sweat.”

Stan didn’t love the fact that Kyle had experience with this combination of scents when waking up with other men on lazy mornings, though it would have been more awkward if he never had. Stan felt like he never had, except in the most technical sense. He tried to remember if he’d ever noticed the sweat-smell of the Kevins after a night of sex. Kevin McCormick sometimes smelled like pot-laced Fritos, and Stan had once pretended to get a call from work in order to avoid blowing him without hurting his feelings. 

“You smell good, too,” Stan said.

“I put cologne on before I came over,” Kyle said. “But I didn’t brush my teeth. I’ve got stale beer breath.”

“Well, so do I.”

“Mixed with come. It’s not so bad.”

They kissed as if to agree upon this, with tongues. Kyle’s breath was indeed stale, and his tongue was tinged with a sour Stan’s-jizz aftertaste, but Stan didn’t care. He loved it, this: waking up with Kyle and knowing what to do with him.

“How did you sleep?” Kyle asked when Stan pulled back to nuzzle at him. He definitely hadn’t nuzzled anyone’s cheek since his kids were babies.

“I slept fine,” Stan said. He decided not to mention how rare this had become. “You?”

“Very well. Oh, you went to bed with wet hair.” Kyle tried to straighten it for him by stroking his fingers through it. “Now it’s all messy.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stan said. “It’s my day off.”

As soon as he heard himself say this he rolled over to check the clock, his heart lurching. It was almost ten. Stan cursed, untangled himself from Kyle and bolted out of bed.

“What the hell?” Kyle said.

“My kids,” Stan said, stumbling into his boxers. “It’s-- their day-- I have to--”

“Oh, shit, Stan!” Kyle flung the blankets off of himself, and Stan paused in his frantic attempt to dress in order to observe Kyle’s ass in only boxer briefs. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Kyle asked, and he snatched his pants from the armchair in the corner of the room.

“I forgot, okay, lots of shit was happening-- oh. Fuck.”

“What? What!”

Stan could see from the look on Kyle’s face that he had heard it, too: the front door opening. Wayne had a key. It was fifteen minutes past the time that Lola typically brought them over on Stan’s days off. Stan usually had the pancake batter mixed up by now.

“Dad?”

That was Evan, calling for him. Stan could hear Lola’s footsteps in his kitchen, and Wayne asking his mother if they had the wrong day.

“I’m here!” Stan called back. “Just coming out of the bathroom-- hang on!”

“Jesus Christ, Stan!” Kyle said, whispering. His face was bright red and his hands were shaking as he attempted to get his pants fastened. “This is so-- fucking-- unprofessional!”

“Unprofessional?” Stan boggled at this as he pulled a rumpled, unlaundered sweater on. “What does that make me, a hooker?”

“That’s not the word I meant to use!” Kyle shrugged on his wrinkled work shirt, leaving his undershirt on the floor. “This is so-- so-- it’s so _you_ , Stan! The fact that this is happening to me. It’s so you, getting me into a situation where I’m uncomfortable, without thinking--”

“You just showed up here! This wasn’t my idea!”

“Shut up, shut up! They’ll hear you. What am I supposed to do now? Crawl out the window? Oh, Jesus I don’t even have a car!”

“Just stay in here,” Stan said. “I’ll-- I’ll figure it out.”

“Like hell you will. Christ, I feel like I’ve got blood on my hands. Those are your children out there! Fuck!”

“Be quiet,” Stan hissed. Out in the kitchen, the kids’ and Lola’s voices had gone silent. “Goddammit.” Stan pulled a hand through his messy hair. He wanted to stuff Kyle under the bed and also to fuck him over the side of it; he’d never imagined how arousing it would be to snap back at Kyle like this. They’d been so careful with each other as teenagers, when maybe they should have been shouting and pushing each other onto beds.

“So I’m supposed to just hide in here?” Kyle whispered when Stan reached for the doorknob. “Like your shameful secret? Like always?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just go,” Kyle said, shaking his head. “Pretend I’m not here.”

Stan opened his mouth to respond to that, but he left the room without coming up with anything. He felt sixteen again, hiding liquor or deleting his browsing history, trying to keep his cool while he concealed an illicit substance in an otherwise sterile environment. As soon as he saw his kids he straightened his shoulders and forced himself to put on a smile.

“Hey!” Stan said. “Sorry, I was just, um. In the bathroom.”

“Is your tummy upset?” Evan asked, and she dashed over to hug him. Lola and Wayne remained near the fridge, both of them staring at Stan like they suspected foul play.

“I’m okay,” Stan said. “Just running a little behind. Um, damn, and I don’t think I have milk, for pancakes--”

“They haven’t had breakfast yet,” Lola said. “They usually eat here, so.”

“I know, dang, well, um. We’ll go out. How’s that? As a special treat.”

There was a noise from the bedroom: something crashing into Stan’s dresser, and one of the drawer pulls clanging. Lola’s eyes widened with alarm, and he could feel the kids staring at him, waiting to be told that everything was okay.

“My friend Kyle is here,” Stan said. His heart began to pound as if this admission alone was equivalent to coming out. “He came over last night, um.” Stan nodded to the empty beer bottles on the counter. “And he had a little too much to drive, so he slept on the couch.”

Stan could see Lola's gaze shift to the couch. Wayne was looking at it, too. There were no pillows, blankets, or any other indication that it had been slept on. There was also no additional car in the driveway that Stan could claim as Kyle's, left there after a night of drinking too much.

“He was just using my shower,” Stan said, pointing his thumb back at the bedroom door. He couldn't make himself stop talking, or think of any other explanation for the fact that Kyle was lingering in his bedroom. “The FBI has him staying at that crummy motel out by the highway, and, uh.”

“The FBI?” Evan said. She sounded incredulous, as if this was a thing that existed only in television shows.

“Yeah, he works for them,” Stan said. He tried to force a casual grin, and felt himself failing to look like he was anything but panicked. “Anyway, he’s waiting for his partner to come pick him up. His FBI partner.”

“What’s going on?” Lola asked, and Stan braced himself to explain why Kyle couldn't drive home last night if he was also waiting to be picked up this morning. “Did something happen with the investigation?”

“What-- no, no, nothing to do with the case. Kyle and I were good friends as kids, um. You remember.”

“Of course I remember.”

Stan realized that the shower wasn’t running, and that his previous excuse for lingering in the bedroom while he dressed had involved being in the master bathroom himself. Every lie was knitting together into a web of incriminating evidence that something else was clearly going on. Lola seemed concerned, Wayne confused, and Evan slightly hurt, probably by the lack of pancakes cooking on the stove top. Stan was furious with Kyle for being clumsy enough to make noise back there, but he was also feeling desperately protective of him, as if Kyle had more at stake from being caught in Stan’s bed than Stan did.

“Kyle was just over last night to catch up, as a friend,” Stan said, aware that he was both repeating himself and protesting too much. He went for the beer bottles on the counter and tossed them in the recycling bin. “It got late, you know, old friends, talking-- so he's here, he just crashed here, he's, uh. Where do you guys want to go to breakfast?”

“Is your friend coming with us?” Wayne asked, and Stan tried not to read an accusation into the question. 

“I don’t think so,” Stan said. “He’ll probably need to get to work.”

“He’s trying to solve the murders?”

“Yep, yeah. That’s why he’s in town.”

“I want him to come!” Evan said, tugging on the hem of Stan's shirt. “He can tell us how they're going to find the killer.” Her eyes bugged out a little when she said killer, as if South Park’s serial murderer was the bad guy in one of her cartoons. Stan supposed he should be glad she wasn’t capable of grasping what was actually going on.

“No,” Lola said. “Sweetie, that's. Confidential, and not suitable for you to hear.” She glanced at Stan like maybe he needed to be told this, too, and he gave her his best 'no shit' look in return.

“You don't need to be hearing about that,” Stan said, touching her head. “Anyway, Kyle is busy.” He lifted his hand in a wave that was directed at Lola, wanting to be free from her scrutinizing gaze. “Thanks for dropping these guys off,” he said. “I'll bring them back tomorrow around noon, on the way to my shift.” He hated the way that sounded, like he'd be returning some rented equipment. Lola sighed and peered at the hallway that led to Stan’s bedroom.

“I guess Kyle is still—showering?” she said. Stan shrugged.

“He's moving kind of slow,” Stan said. “Too much beer. He was always a lightweight.”

“Wayne drank beer,” Evan said, tugging at Stan's shirt again.

“What?” Stan narrowed his eyes at Wayne. “When?”

“She means that night-- you know.” Lola waved her hand through the air. “Evan, stop. We all remember that. You don't have to bring it up.”

“Well, he did,” she muttered, pressing her face to Stan's leg.

“Oh, sure,” Wayne said, and Stan could see that he was furious about the accusing look Stan had given him. “I get trashed every night. That's totally my style, you know, that's exactly who I am.”

“Stop.” Lola touched Wayne's arm, and the way his shoulders dropped, the calming effect she had on him, made Stan's heart sink. He had the opposite effect on his son, lately. Lola pulled him to her and pecked him on the cheek. “Be nice,” she said, quietly enough that Stan felt insulted. She turned to him and sighed. “I guess I won't get to say hi to Kyle?”

“Nah, he's. You know how he is.”

“Yes, I remember our wedding day. He's not exactly warm.” She said so loudly enough that Stan was afraid that Kyle would hear. He imagined Kyle sulking in the bedroom with his ear pressed to the door. Either that or he'd climbed out the window and bolted through the neighbors' backyards like a fugitive.

Lola gave Evan a kiss goodbye and left. Stan got the kids settled in front of the TV, promising that they would leave for breakfast soon. When he slipped back into his bedroom he braced himself for an attack, still wounded by Kyle’s comment about Stan lacking “professionalism” when nearly caught in bed with a man by his ex-wife and kids.

Kyle was standing near the window in the back corner of the room like a cornered animal, and he looked like he was ready to lash out at Stan in a feral rage as soon as he came through the door.

“You told them I’m here!” Kyle said when the door was shut, whispering. “What the fuck!”

“What was I supposed to do when you started crashing around in here like a buffalo? Was it that hard not to throw yourself against my furniture?”

As soon as he'd spoken, Stan was enveloped in the kind of energy that had propelled him onto Kyle in the motel room the other night, recklessly aroused by their new ability to withstand conflict. He couldn’t give in to that now, and Kyle would likely throttle him if he tried, but it was amazing, again, how good it felt not to mumble and turn away rather than confront each other. Kyle huffed and straightened his tie, then his belt.

“I’m not good with kids,” he said. “And your story was terrible.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m not a good liar.”

“Says the guy who spent eleven years of marriage closeted and then went on to sleep with a married man.”

“Being closeted-- it wasn’t a lie, okay, it was a process. And Kevin was the one lying to Clyde. Jesus, why are we talking about this now? Come out and meet my kids before this gets even weirder.”

“I don’t see how it could. Fuck, and Wayne is a teenager now? He’ll melt me with his hatred.”

“Why would he hate you?”

“Because I’m fucking his dad!”

“He doesn’t know that! And you’re not going to tell him!”

“No shit, do you think I want to make the announcement? God, this is a nightmare. What was I thinking? Bringing you beers? Sucking your dick? Of course it’s come to this. Nothing can be simple with you. With us.”

“I’m going out there,” Stan said, pointing to the door. “And you’re coming with me. Splash some water on your face, fuck. You’re all red.”

“I knew this would happen if I came back here,” Kyle said, speaking under his breath as he pushed past Stan, toward the bathroom. “One week back in South Park and you’re ruining my life.”

“Stop acting like my kids are out there waiting to eat you. They’re children. They’re nice.”

“Children are not nice! You and I certainly weren’t!”

“Shhhh!”

Stan walked out into the living room, a combination of rage and protectiveness toward Kyle persisting in his chest. It felt like a physical thing that had lodged there, occupying space and constricting his lung function. Like feeling overly full after a good meal, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. 

Wayne went on staring at the television when Stan loomed over the couch, waiting for the kids to give him a clue about how to proceed. Evan looked up at him with a smile.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked.

“He’s coming,” Stan said. 

“Hello!” Kyle said, appearing behind Stan as if he’d been called to the stage. His jacket was buttoned, hiding the wrinkles in his shirt, and his tie was neatly in place. Stan wanted to tell him to tone down the cheerfulness when he beamed at the kids, and he tried to imagine the last time Kyle would have had reason to be around children. “Wow, hi, look at you guys,” Kyle said. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“This is Evan,” Stan said, indicating her with a two-fingered point, which was department protocol for crime scene reporting. “And Wayne.”

“Hi,” Evan said, resting her chin on the arm of the couch. Wayne waved, then looked at Stan like he was owed a better explanation for this, or everything.

“Sorry to keep you waiting on your breakfast,” Kyle said. “I was just heading out. Your dad and I are old friends--”

“I explained,” Stan said, and Kyle cut him a look, as if Stan had stepped on his line. “How are you going to get to the motel?” Stan asked. “Is Mac on his way?”

“He didn't answer his phone,” Kyle said. “I’ll walk.”

“What? It’s like fifteen miles to that motel, what are you talking about? We’ll give you a ride.”

“Dad said you’re solving the murders,” Evan said.

“Trying to,” Kyle said, and he looked back to Stan. “I suppose a ride would be fine,” he said. “I’m so sorry to intrude on your-- morning.”

“It’s fine. In fact.” Stan wasn’t sure if this was insane or brilliant, only that he liked having Kyle in the same room with his kids more than he’d expected to. “Why don’t you come to breakfast with us? We’ll probably hit up Blueberry Junction. Remember when you ordered bacon and pancakes and they brought you bacon pancakes?”

“That was so weird,” Kyle said. He glanced at the kids. “It was like, bacon bits,” he explained. “Cooked into the pancakes.”

“That sounds good,” Wayne says.

“It was extremely good. I ordered my pancakes that way every time, after that.”

“So did I,” Stan said. “Until I had to start watching my weight,” he said, patting his stomach. Kyle rolled his eyes.

“God, you still go there?” he said. “Blueberry Junction? With the crayons and everything?”

“The crayons?” Stan said.

“At the table, you know, and the balloons on the hostess stand.” Kyle laughed and started to turn red again.

“You’re too cool for Blueberry Junction now?” Stan said.

“That place is pretty lame,” Wayne said.

“No, it’s not,” Evan said. “Dad, can we go?”

“Of course we can go. And Kyle should come with us. Right?”

“If he wants,” Evan said, shrugging. She seemed less impressed with Kyle than she had expected to be when she heard he was in the FBI. Stan was shocked to see Kyle looking as if he was actually considering breakfast at Blueberry Junction.

“I am hungry,” Kyle said. “And my first meeting isn’t until after lunch.”

“Who are you meeting with?” Wayne asked. “FBI people? About the murders?”

“Well, yes,” Kyle said. Evan stood, and soon they were all putting on their coats, preparing to head out for breakfast like some kind of family-ish unit. Stan couldn’t believe Kyle was going along with this, but he had always liked Blueberry Junction, even if he wanted to belittle its crayon-strewn tables now.

“Why do you never have a coat anymore?” Stan asked Kyle when they walked out into the chill of the morning. “Is that out of style in Denver, being prepared for the weather?”

“It’s October,” Kyle said. “It’s not coat weather yet. It's not even Halloween.”

“But it’s cold,” Stan said. He didn’t press, because he remembered the old rule, which had started around middle school and persisted through high school: any guy who wore a real coat before October, in the event of anything less dramatic than a freakishly early blizzard, was a pansy-ass excuse for a real Colorado mountain-bred boy. Stan was charmed, a little, by Kyle’s adherence to this.

They piled into Stan’s old Taurus, which only got used on his off days and sometimes had trouble starting in early winter. When the car started on Stan’s first try, he was tempted to see this as something important and fated, or just some good luck that had been brought on by Kyle, who was explaining to the kids why he couldn’t talk about the case while it was ongoing.

“But we have some promising leads, I assure you,” he said. That was news to Stan, and he planned to ask about it later, maybe when they were in bed. He felt confident, and had even when they were whisper-fighting in his bedroom, that he would be in bed with Kyle again soon.

The restaurant was crowded, but the hostess brought them to a table for four after just a five minute wait in the noisy lobby. Being back in Blueberry Junction seemed to renew Kyle’s twitchiness, and he held his menu with both hands, glancing around the place like he was looking for suspects here, too.

“Do you guys have plans for Halloween?” Kyle asked. Stan was surprised that he was taking the initiative to start conversation, and grateful. He turned to give Kyle what he hoped was a surreptitious smile, but Kyle was watching the kids like he truly wanted to know the answer. Wayne shrugged.

“Mom says I'm too old to trick-or-treat,” he said.

“What?” Stan said. “No, you're not. Me and Kyle trick-or-treated all through high school. Right?” he said, desperate for a second opinion that would confirm his son didn't need to grow up any faster than he already was.

“Right,” Kyle said. “But maybe that’s not done anymore.”

“Not done?” Stan turned back to Wayne. “Do you want to trick-or-treat?”

“I mean, I want the candy,” Wayne said, fidgeting. “But I guess it’s kinda babyish and gay to dress up and knock on doors and stuff.”

“Don’t say gay like that,” Stan snapped, louder than he’d intended to. “You know not to say that.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Wayne slumped behind his menu. Stan gave Kyle an apologetic look, and didn’t appreciate Kyle staring him down like he’d overreacted.

“Well, I’m gonna be Anna,” Evan announced.

“What does that mean?” Kyle asked, and Wayne snorted.

“From _Frozen_ ,” Evan said. “Anna.” She stared at Kyle like he was slow.

“It’s a Disney movie,” Stan said, and Kyle gave him that look again.

“Stan,” he said. “I live in Denver, not on Mars. I know what _Frozen_ is. It’s the ice princess, right?” he said, looking at Evan.

“That’s her sister,” Evan said. “Anna is the regular girl.”

“Oh, you like the regular girl better?” Kyle said. “That’s cool, actually. That’s a very mature preference.”

Evan glanced at Stan as if she wasn’t sure if Kyle was being nice or mean. Stan wasn’t sure either. Their food arrived, and Evan talked about the Anna costume that Lola was making for her while everyone else busied themselves with eating.

“Hey, question,” Wayne said when their plates were taken away. He was looking at Kyle, and Stan had a bad feeling about what was forthcoming. “Did you and my dad ever drink beers?” Wayne asked. “When you were underage?”

“Do we have to drag all that up again?” Stan asked. “You’re forgiven, okay? Just don’t do it again.”

“So, in other words, yes,” Wayne said, and he smiled when Kyle did.

“I never really drank in high school,” Kyle said. “I won’t speak for Stan.”

“Great,” Stan said. He was too fuzzy from the ease of the whole meal to really be mad, but it was so like Kyle to throw him under the bus at a moment like this. “Thanks for that.”

“I knew it,” Wayne said.

“You want to repeat all my mistakes?” Stan asked. He wasn’t sure if Wayne could tell that he’d been thinking of his biggest teenage screw-up, impregnating a girl while still in high school, and he desperately hoped not when he considered what that would mean to Wayne: that he was a mistake. It wasn’t a secret that he was unplanned, but it also wasn’t something they ever talked about.

“Anyway,” Kyle said. “Stan was a good kid. So was I. Mostly.”

“You were good,” Stan said, and he grabbed for his nearly empty coffee cup, feeling again like he had said something incriminating.

After breakfast, Stan dropped Kyle off at the motel and took the kids shopping for Halloween decorations. He missed having paper ghosts and skeletons hanging from the light fixtures at his place, and Lola had of course kept all of the holiday stuff. At the urging of the kids, Stan went a little crazy at Michael’s, and the three of them spent the rest of the day decorating the house. Evan was beside herself, allowed to put things wherever she wanted since Stan had no real décor to clash with. Wayne seemed to have fun with it, too, and didn't seem concerned with whether or not he was acting 'gay' in the process. They got pizza for dinner and watched Halloween-themed movies that were tame enough for Evan, featuring cartoonish witches. Wayne was on his phone a lot by that point, but he at least remained in the living room until the movies were over. Stan considered it a very successful evening, and he called Kyle as soon as the kids were asleep.

“Hey,” Kyle said when he picked up. Stan grinned against his phone, wanting to interpret Kyle's pronunciation of that greeting as seductive.

“How was your day?” Stan asked. He'd been desperate to have someone around to answer this question since the end of his marriage. The Kevins had never really made him wonder, and if he asked them it was out of polite obligation more than really wanting to know.

“Busy, tiring,” Kyle said. “Do you still have the kids with you?”

“Yeah, we put up Halloween decorations. It was fun. They’re asleep now.”

“Oh, well. I was going to ask you to come over here, but I guess it will have to wait.”

“Come over to your motel room?”

“Yes, Stan.”

The idea of motel sex with Kyle was riveting enough to make Stan a little hard. He got in bed and rolled onto his side, clamping the pillow Kyle had used the night before between his legs.

“You were actually great with the kids today,” Stan said.

“What, you're surprised that I can conduct myself appropriately for a PG audience?”

“No. Well, yeah, but you're the one who said you're not good with kids.”

“Well, I'm adequate. I don't know about good. They're cute, though, Stan. Wayne looks like you. It's kind of jarring, actually, since I knew you at that age.”

Stan tried to imagine a thirteen-year-old who looked like Kyle peering up at him with Kyle-like judgment. It was jarring, even as only a mental image.

“Get anything done today?” Stan asked. “At your meetings?”

“We issued warrants for Mark Nelson's phone, computer, all of that. Hopefully we can figure out why he returned to South Park. We're trying to determine if he he still had friends here, and we'll interview them if so. Patty was called, about that. I didn't speak to her personally, but of course she's a wreck. She thought he was safe, you know, since he didn't live here. I ended up calling Ike after we finished up for the day.”

“Oh, good. He's still in Europe, right? No plans to come back here?”

“Yes, he's there, and no, he's not coming back to the States anytime soon. I told him not to set foot anywhere near Colorado under any circumstances. He laughed, like the idea of coming back to South Park was ludicrous. Which, I guess, for him, it is.”

“Well, good.” Stan tried not to be hurt by the idea that it was ludicrous for any members of the Broflovski family to return to South Park unless they were assigned to investigate serial killings in the area. “I got a text from Kenny,” Stan said. “The safe house arrangements have been made. Karen, Kevin and Patrick are there, and another officer will take over watching them when Patrick sleeps or needs a break.”

“Aw, well, there goes half of your regular action, huh?”

“What?” Stan said, though he knew what Kyle meant.

“Kevin McCormick, cloistered in a safe house! Will you survive without his raw sexual magnetism until the coast is clear?”

“Fine, make fun of me,” Stan said. “I'm sure your Denver boyfriends are of a caliber Kevin McCormick could only dream of aspiring to.” Stan was kind of worried about this, actually, and glad when Kyle snorted.

“Allow me a little childish jealousy, please,” Kyle said. “Though I do stand by my opinion that the least of the lesser McCormick siblings is not worth your dick. Or, you know. Any other part of your anatomy.”

“Ha.”

“Well, I don't know how you do gay.”

“How I do gay, Kyle?”

“You know what I mean, Stan.”

He did, actually: it was kind of a sly way of asking if Stan liked getting fucked or preferred to be the one doing the fucking. At least, that was what Stan thought; he wasn't as sophisticated as Kyle when it came to these types of negotiations, certainly.

“I'm flexible,” Stan said, squeezing the pillow with this thighs. “That's how I do gay, I guess.”

“I knew it,” Kyle said. “Well, I'm very rigid.”

“I'll bet you are,” Stan said, reaching down to cup his erection.

“Phone sex in a motel room!” Kyle said. “Now I really feel like a special agent.”

“It's very Fox Mulder,” Stan said. “But, wait. Are we doing phone sex?”

“You'll laugh, but I have to confess that I have no idea how you do phone sex, and I'm not sure I want to know.”

“Yeah, agreed,” Stan said, though he was still rubbing himself through his jeans, and he had the feeling Kyle was, too. Kyle's breathing had gotten a little choppy over the phone line.

They talked for another hour, and Stan heard some information about Kyle's trysts in D.C. and Denver that pleased him. There hadn't been as many as Stan had imagined, and Kyle's satisfaction level was reportedly low. Kyle had gone through a period of wondering if he was 'tired of sex,' apparently. Stan liked the idea that he had jump-started Kyle's sex drive himself, but he wasn't presumptuous enough to ask if this was true.

“Could you make time to see me tomorrow?” Stan asked. “I can come to the motel if that's easiest.”

“Don't worry,” Kyle said. “I'll make time. We'll see each other. It's a thing now. A full-on thing.”

“A thing?” Stan said, grinning.

“Yeah. I need it, you, this-- the investigation is very stressful. And the killer is so clean with his crime scenes that it's making me feel incompetent. We should have at least gotten a heel print from behind Skeeter's. It's like he _planned_ for that one to look messy, Stan. It's just-- anyway. It's a lot, and. Having you here helps.”

“Good,” Stan said. He hadn't been expecting that kind of admission at this hour of the night, over the phone, and he wasn't sure that he should indicate how deeply it had flooded him with warmth. “Same here,” he said. “My nerves have been shot since the first murder, I can't sleep, but. Last night I slept great, with you here.”

“I always did sleep well in your bed,” Kyle said. There was something a little bitter in that, just an edge, or maybe Stan was imagining things. Kyle sighed. “Goodnight,” he said. “Be safe. Text me tomorrow.”

Stan slept well again that night, holding onto his pillow and burying his nose in it when he needed the scent of Kyle's hair to pull him back under. It wasn't as nice, waking to find a pillow instead of Kyle within arm's reach, but the promise of an indefinite continuation of their 'thing' was good enough to keep that warm feeling bundled in his chest until sunrise.

In the week that followed there were no additional murders, but with the increasingly cold weather there seemed to be a frost settling over South Park that wasn't purely literal, and as more days passed without a murder everyone in town seemed to be holding their breath, afraid to hope that it was over. Stan took a few shifts at the safe house and endured Patrick's polite but obvious dislike of his presence there. During his regular shifts, the calls Stan went out on with Bebe were for the typical, mundane South Park things: dragging Cartman into the drunk tank after he showed up at Bennigan's demanding a table at five minutes until closing, arresting hunters who were unwilling to wait for the official start of deer season, and taking an inventory of damaged property and stolen goods when the barn at Carl Denkins' ranch was vandalized. The worst call they got was about Linda Stotch refusing to leave the public park after scaring some children there. She'd been hounding them about where her son Butters was, shouting that she knew they were covering for him, that he was supposed to be grounded. She seemed to think he was still ten years old.

“This can't go on,” Bebe said when they'd secured Linda at her house and seen that she'd calmed back into her other mode of existence, which was near-catatonic. “I thought Butters was coming back to look after her?”

“Maybe he's afraid to,” Stan said. “Butters was never the courageous type, and I can't blame anybody for avoiding South Park right now.”

“Well, I can,” Bebe said. “It's cruel to leave her alone like that. She needs to be in a facility. Can we do anything without his approval, for the sake of the community?”

“I doubt it,” Stan said. “Has Kenny been able to get in touch with Butters?”

“I don't think so,” Bebe said. Her mouth got tight, and Stan could see that she still didn't want to talk about Kenny. He had been preoccupied with his siblings and their wellbeing since they were brought to the safe house, and Kenny's friends with benefits arrangement with Bebe seemed to have been put on hold in the meantime. “I'll ask him,” Bebe said when Stan stared at her. “How's Kyle?” she asked, as if returning his vaguely defined relationship volley.

“Great,” Stan said, and he tried not to smile like a kid with a crush. It was stupid to think of what was going on between him and Kyle with that kind of rosy naiveté, considering their past and their undiscussed future, but he had never had so much fun with another person in bed, and so far all they had done there was blow jobs, frantic rutting and lots of making out. It felt a bit like a teenage thing that they were reenacting now because they didn't have it then, and Stan was trying not to see this as a bad thing.

“I guess you'll see him tonight?” Bebe said. “Again?”

Stan opened his mouth to confirm that yes, of course, he would fling himself into Kyle's motel room again that night and grab him by those suspenders, but before he could speak he realized that Bebe was probably lonely. Stan normally hung out with her after their shifts at least a few times a week, and when he wasn't there, Kenny would show up for another sort of recreation. Now Stan and Kenny had both been overtaken by more pressing concerns, and Bebe was left to deal with the stress of the unsolved murders by herself.

“Why don't you come over?” Stan said. “To my place, and Kyle could come, too, after we all grab some dinner together.”

“Stan.” Bebe laughed. “No, c'mon. I don't want to intrude.”

“You wouldn't be, it's--”

“I mean,” she said. “Who knows how long you two even have together, right? The FBI could find this killer any day now, or reassign the case if Kyle and Mac take too long to make any breakthroughs, and then Kyle goes back to Denver, and then what? So just enjoy it. I don't want to step all over your time with him. I know this is some kind of closure-type situation for you guys.”

Stan was fuming by the end of her little speech, sure that she'd been trying to hurt him with that, but he couldn't deny that she was probably right. Even if he maintained some kind of long distance relationship with Kyle after his return to Denver, it wouldn't be what Stan was really beginning to crave from him: a full-on return to South Park, for good, and regular breakfasts with Stan and the kids at Blueberry Junction. Their work schedules would make anything more long-distance than that almost impossible to negotiate, and Kyle didn't even like phone sex.

“Sorry,” Bebe said, speaking softly. “That was presumptuous. I just don't want him to live out his little high school boyfriend fantasy with you and then break your heart when he skips off back to the city.”

“I'm not just a high school boyfriend fantasy to him.” Stan wished he was as confident of this as he was attempting to sound.

“I know,” Bebe said. “But that doesn't mean he's going to treat you like more than that now. I like Kyle, but he's self-important. Can't you see it when he interacts with the Chief? He gets what he wants, seems like. I don't want him thinking he can just have you and then go.”

“You don't know him as well as I do,” Stan said. “You don't see this other side of him.” Stan wanted to believe that nobody else did, maybe not even Kyle's brother and parents, and he worried that Mac might have seen not only Kyle's secret, guarded self but also some additional stuff that Stan had never been privy to. He was no longer worried that Mac was secretly in love with Kyle, but the close friendship envy was almost worse.

“I'm sure you're right,” Bebe said. Stan scoffed, not wanting to be placated. “And I know I'm not super qualified to give relationship advice,” she said. “But I hate the thought of something vaguely traumatic being your first real romance with a guy, something all wrapped up in latent childhood shit, and in the midst of everything that's going on and how stressed out you already are. You deserve better than that.”

Stan didn't know how to explain that Kyle already felt like his only real chance for a real romance with a guy, so he stared out the window and let her assume he was pissed off at her for trying to tell him some things that he already knew: that there was a big, empty place in him that had sat vacant for eleven years, and the fact that Kyle fit perfectly into that spot wasn't necessarily a good thing.

“You could come with us tonight,” he said, because he knew she wouldn't. “We're going to Brown Burro.” Stan and Kyle would probably get each other off in the motel room first, but she could theoretically meet them afterward. Kyle had texted Stan saying he wanted Mexican food, and he had reluctantly agreed to try this place, despite the name. He'd said in a further text that naming conventions in South Park had deteriorated since high school. He hadn't yet made any comments on the names of Stan's children, but Stan knew Kyle well enough to feel certain that he had some opinions on the matter.

“Nah,” Bebe said. “I'm serious, I want you guys to have time together. I know you've missed him, and not just, uh. The sex part.”

“We never had sex in high school. You know that.”

“I know, but there was always this predatory thing that came out in you when he was around. Like you had your eye on everybody, anybody who might want to hurt him.”

“That's crazy,” Stan said, though he knew she was right. He felt ashamed of what a poor job he'd done, despite giving off that impression. He hadn't been able to protect Kyle from Cartman. Stan had never taken him seriously back then. “Do you think there will be another murder?” he asked, staring out the passenger side window as Bebe turned onto the road that lead back to the station. “Or will it stop at three?”

“You're the one seeing numbers in the chest wounds,” Bebe said. 

Stan had eventually come to see the ugly gash that split Mark Nelson from gut to chest as the number one, following the two on David Harrison and the three parallel slash marks on Ruby Tucker. He'd shared this with Kyle, who promised to pass it along to Mac and the others. It hadn't resulted in any breakthroughs so far, but Stan felt a little victorious as the week progressed and no further victims were discovered, as if this proved his countdown theory correct. Kyle had mentioned that the three deaths might be the countdown to something much more ominous, but Stan couldn’t imagine what that might be. The killer didn’t fit the profile of the kind of sociopath who blew up bridges or fired wildly into stadium crowds. Every murder had seemed so personal, and each crime scene carefully crafted.

After finishing up his work at the station, Stan headed directly to the motel to pick up Kyle. It was quarter after ten, and Stan was too hyped up about the idea of introducing Kyle to his favorite weird Mexican diner to let his conversation with Bebe get him down very much. It was true that Kyle represented a kind of emotional time bomb that had been waiting to go off since they both hit puberty, but he was also the only guy whose dick Stan had ever enjoyed sucking, and the only person Stan really liked talking on the phone with, and something about putting his arms around this particular time bomb made Stan feel more secure than he had in years.

When he knocked on Kyle's motel room door he thought he heard voices from within, and he assumed it was the television until Kyle opened up and Stan saw Mac inside, sitting at the little table that had once hosted a wine and cheese spread. Now it was covered with papers, and Kyle's laptop was open amid them.

“Sorry,” Kyle said, stepping aside to let Stan in. “We're just finishing up for the night.”

Stan didn't want to be ridiculous, but he couldn't deny that he didn't like seeing Mac here, in the dingy motel room that Stan had come to see as his and Kyle's secret sex space. He gave Mac the most convincing smile he could muster, wishing that he'd gone home to change out of his uniform before showing up at the motel. Kyle usually liked to suck him off while he was still wearing it, but with that off the table Stan felt like an awkward grunt, his gun belt clunky and obvious while theirs were concealed neatly under their jackets.

“It's been a paperwork heavy-day,” Mac said. “Sometimes that's more draining than a crime scene. I'm sure you know what I mean.”

“Yep,” Stan said, glancing around the room. Kyle had neatened it up since the last time Stan had showed up to rub him off and kiss him. “Um, well, I'll come back later--”

“No, no,” Kyle said. “I'm starving, please. I've been fantasizing about tortilla chips and salsa all day.” He gave Stan a look that suggested he'd been fantasizing about other things as well, and Stan appreciated it. “Let me just send two emails,” he said, walking over to retrieve his laptop from the table. “Then we'll go.”

“Where are you getting dinner?” Mac asked.

“What was it called?” Kyle asked. “The Brown Bean?”

“Brown Burro,” Stan said. “It's off 285, on the way to Fairplay. Worth the drive, I think. Good green chile sauce, and they serve breakfast all day. All night, I mean, uh, ‘cause they open at eight and close at six in the morning. It’s a quirky little place.” 

Stan made himself stop talking. He sat beside Kyle on the bed, though not close enough to read what he was typing into an email. He wondered if Mac knew they'd been fooling around, and wasn't sure if he hoped Kyle had told him or not.

“Jesus,” Mac said. “Mexican food. That sounds really good. Can I come?”

“Of course,” Kyle said, still typing. “It's about time you two got to know each other.” He gave Stan a quick smile. It was a little bit devious, or maybe Stan just wanted it to be, as if he was in on some joke that Mac wasn't.

“So how's it going with the case?” Stan asked, directing this to Mac. He was organizing papers and closing them into manila folders, straightening up their workspace. To Stan it seemed a little like he was getting the evidence away from prying eyes.

“It's tedious at this point,” Mac said. “We're combing through the last victim's personal correspondence, looking for anything that would explain why he came to South Park, who lured him here, that sort of thing. So far it's just a lot of mundane bullshit, but we've got to look at everything.”

Stan nodded, appreciating the straight-forward answer. Kyle's fingers were still flying over his keyboard.

“I'm just updating Denver on what we did today,” Kyle said. “I do the field reports on even numbered days. Mac does the odd ones.”

“Cool,” Stan said, jealous again.

They left the motel ten minutes later. Stan didn't want to leave his cruiser parked there, so they piled into it for the drive to the restaurant. Kyle and Mac sat in back, behind the armored partition. Stan felt like an idiot, driving them around like they were his off-duty collars, but it was protocol. He was annoyed with Kyle for inviting Mac to dinner, even though he had done the same thing with Bebe earlier. Maybe Kyle had expected Mac to decline, too.

The diner was crowded as usual. Word had gotten out about the strange but charming atmosphere, which featured low ceilings, chintzy décor, and a lively buzz that was rare for a Park County restaurant. Mac got beers from the bar while they waited for a table, and Stan sighed as soon as he was out of earshot. Kyle elbowed him.

“Be nice,” he said.

“I should have brought Bebe,” Stan said, feeling outnumbered. “Maybe they would have hit it off. I think she's run into the brick wall that is Kenny, again.”

“Yeah, what's Kenny's deal?” Kyle asked. “He's an enigma. All dark with his creepy mortician shit, and then sunny and bro-like at the same time. Why has he never settled down with her? Bebe's way out of his league, don't you think?”

“I don't know about that. I think they'd be good together, but. She says he disappears.”

“Interesting.”

Mac returned with the beers just as the hostess was telling them their table was ready, and he refused to accept five dollars from Stan to cover his.

“My treat,” Mac said. Stan tried not to take this as a reminder that Mac's salary was probably far higher than his own. He had so far resisted the urge to look up Mac and Kyle's yearly earnings on any of the websites that listed government payroll, but he was pretty sure they were in a higher tax bracket than him.

The hostess led them to a booth in the center of the crowded dining room. Mac sat on one side and Stan took the other. Stan felt like he'd won a pissing contest when Kyle slid in to sit beside him. Mac seemed more interested in the basket of chips and dish of salsa than their seating arrangements, and Stan hoped he wasn’t giving off that aggro vibe that Bebe had noticed in high school. Sometimes he really was the only one in the room who cared about sitting next to Kyle.

“Is there good Mexican food in Denver?” Stan asked, really wanting to ask how often they had dinner together. If they were anything like him and Bebe, they probably shared a meal almost every night, family-like.

“We have a couple of decent places,” Kyle said.

“When was the last time you made it up to Denver?” Mac asked. There was something a bit pointed in the question. 

“Last year,” Stan said, not wanting to mention that he’d gone there with Kenny to celebrate and mourn his divorce. “Just with a friend, for the weekend.” 

“It’s gradually becoming more livable,” Kyle said. “But of course we have pot tourism now, which makes it feel even more like some kind of college town, as opposed to a real city.” 

“Kyle misses D.C.,” Mac said. “He talks about it like it’s his holy land.”

“I do not!” Kyle said. “But of course I miss it. Some things, anyway.”

“Like what?” Stan asked, a little offended on behalf of their home state. 

“The sense of urgency,” Kyle said. “It permeates everything, and I liked that, even when it stressed me out. It inspired me, too. And if you went out, the bars were packed with grown-ups talking business and politics after work, not stoned twenty-somethings. Denver makes me feel old.” 

“You are old,” Mac said. 

“Talk to me in two years, asshole,” Kyle said, and he turned to Stan. “Mac is twenty-eight.” 

“Ah,” Stan said. Even the guy’s age was slightly humiliating to Stan, for reasons couldn’t pinpoint. “I guess South Park makes me feel like a little of both,” he said. “Young, because we have a lot of geezers. And old, because I was a kid here, and I’m not anymore.”

“I feel ancient, being back here,” Kyle said. “And everything seems smaller than I remember it.”

“That so?” Stan gave Kyle a look, thinking of one thing that was bigger than the last time Kyle had crossed its path in South Park, but Kyle just gave him a mild look in return, as if Stan’s cock had not sprung to mind.

Their meal was mostly enjoyable, though Stan got the sense that Mac was giving him an informal interview as they ate. His questions about Denver and causal inferences into Stan’s aspirations with the South Park police department seemed designed to make points for Kyle to consider. Stan would have been offended if he didn’t get the sense that Mac was doing the same thing Bebe had been trying to do earlier: looking out for a friend who was susceptible to heartbreak. Stan felt like he held up to Mac’s scrutiny fairly well, at least until Clyde Donovan came stomping across the dining room and threw a frozen margarita in Stan’s face. 

“What the fuck!” Kyle said. He stood, wiping at the spot on his pants where the margarita had splashed. “You just assaulted a police officer, dumb ass! Stan! Get him!”

Stan wiped at his eyes, which were stinging with lime and salt. Clyde was standing at the end of their table, shuddering with rage, his hand still wrapped around the stem of the dripping margarita glass. Mac had started to get up when the drink went flying, and he remained in a sort of pre-action crouch, looking from Clyde to Stan. 

“You motherfucker,” Clyde said. He was in tears, his chest heaving. 

“Clyde,” Stan said, and then he just wanted to send up a white flag, guilt and shame that he'd been swallowing for months lurching up like bile in his throat. He knew he deserved this, but he really didn’t want this scene to play out here, now. “Look, let’s--”

“You’re not even _gay_!” Clyde said. Everyone in the dining room was staring. “You’re just a disaster. You’re just a sad, selfish drunk like your dad was. Can I get you another margarita, Mr. Marsh? How about some straight tequila? Kevin’s sitting right over there. You can do body shots off him, I don’t give a shit!”

Stan turned, though he really didn’t want to see the expression on Kevin Stoley-Donovan’s face at the moment. Kevin had his elbows on the table and was staring straight ahead, at the empty chair where Clyde had been sitting. His shoulders lifted and dropped with a put-upon sigh. He seemed a little bored.

“Hey!” Kyle said, pulling Clyde away from the table. “You don’t talk about someone’s late father that way. What the hell is wrong with you? Pull yourself together, Clyde. Have some goddamn dignity for once in your life.”

“Dignity?” Clyde roared. Stan winced. Mac seemed to be considering whether or not he should draw his weapon. “I haven’t got any left, thanks to your best friend butt buddy. You took it from me, Stan! You took my balls! Are you happy? Do you like them? Does it make you feel like a big man, having my balls, rolling them around in your hand like some-- fuzzy dice?” Clyde was unraveling further as Kyle continued to ease him away from the table, his rant deteriorating into a pained whine. 

A manager intervened, and Kevin walked out with Clyde as he was escorted from the building. Kevin did not make eye contact with Stan, Kyle, the manager, or with Clyde, so far as Stan could tell. Stan had begun to shiver with a kind of bone-deep humiliation, and also because of the icy margarita that had drenched his hair and shirt, leaving him cold. He was already aware that he would be haunted by Clyde’s tear-stricken face for the rest of his life. Clyde had never seemed quite like a real person to him until that moment. 

“Wow,” Mac said. He sounded angry, possibly on Clyde’s behalf. Stan couldn’t blame him. “What was that all about?”

“I slept with his husband,” Stan said. He deserved to be judged for it, and Kyle might have told Mac all about it already. Mac nodded slowly and looked over at Kyle, who was speaking with the restaurant manager, possibly trying to argue that they shouldn’t be asked to leave, too.

“That’s cold, man,” Mac said. “That guy was really upset.” 

“Yeah. He was.”

Kyle returned to the table looking flustered, and he ate a few chips heaped with salsa before speaking. 

“Stan,” he said. “You’re dripping.”

“I’ll live,” Stan said.

“I asked for our check,” Kyle said. 

“Did you know that guy?” Mac asked Kyle. “The crying guy?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s Clyde Donovan. He’s a famous children’s book author, but he’s also an idiot. And his husband is a creepy little prick. Why did Kevin confess to Clyde?” Kyle was looking at Stan as if he knew. 

“I have no idea,” Stan said. “Shit. I’m so embarrassed. I’m sorry you guys, uh. Had to see that.” 

“He didn’t have to bring your father into it,” Kyle said. “And he should really be screaming at Kevin, not you. Why on earth were they over there having a calm dinner, drinking fucking margaritas? Did Kevin just spot you across the room and decide it would a good time to point out the dude he was cheating with?”

“I don't know,” Stan said. His stomach felt like a fist that was squeezing him tighter and tighter. It was entirely possible that Kevin had seen him with Kyle and dropped that bomb on Clyde out of jealousy. “He’s a vindictive little shit. Kevin, I mean.” 

“Was that part of the attraction?” Mac asked. He was back to being openly smug, the olive branch he'd almost extended yanked miles backward now. 

“The dating pool in South Park is very limited,” Kyle said, and he touched Stan’s leg under the table. It was almost enough to lift Stan’s spirits out of the gutter, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Clyde calling him a disaster. Stan mostly agreed with that sentiment, at least in a romantic sense. The other stuff, about Randy, about being a drunk? That was new. Stan was not aware that people went around town thinking of him that way.

“Let me pay,” Stan said when the check came, and he grabbed for it. 

“But you barely ate,” Kyle said. He sounded sad. Stan was surprised Kyle wasn’t more amused by Clyde’s misery, or by his own, since he'd gotten himself into this mess with his dick. Maybe they would all laugh about it someday.

“I’m paying,” Stan said. “My bullshit ruined the evening, so. Just let me do this.” 

The mood in the squad car was grim on the way back to town. Kyle was chattering nervously about whatever Ike was doing in Europe. Stan was struggling to listen, and Mac occasionally grunted. By the time they got to the motel, Stan felt like he was the late night collar locked in a cage and on his way to jail, and like Kyle and Mac had been good cop, bad copping him all the way there.

“Well,” Mac said when they were standing between the door to his motel room and the door to Kyle’s. “Thanks for having me along.”

“Sorry again,” Stan said. He felt sticky, reeked of sugary margarita mix, and badly needed a shower. “That doesn’t happen to me every time I go there.” The joke fell pretty flat, but Mac laughed.

“I’ll come get you in the morning,” Kyle said to Mac, edging Stan toward his door. “We have that meeting with the guy who did the Nelson autopsy.” 

“Right.” Mac did a kind of salute for Kyle, then raised his eyebrows at Stan before unlocking his motel room door. Stan trailed Kyle into his room, not even bothering to pretend that he wasn’t going in there to have his self-inflicted wounds licked.

“What a night,” Kyle said, and he bolted the door behind him. “Take your clothes off, you’re a mess. Oh, god, but what will you wear? I might be able to get you into one of my shirts, but I wear my pants pretty tight.”

“I noticed,” Stan said. He stood in the middle of the room, defeated, and let Kyle undo the buttons on his uniform shirt. “Goddamn,” Stan said, under his breath. “Did that just happen?”

“Yes,” Kyle said. “It was very Clyde. That’s his destiny, to be throwing frozen drinks at people and crying about his missing balls, making horrible metaphors about fuzzy dice. Some writer he must be, jesus. I just never thought you’d be on the receiving end of a Clyde meltdown. It's beneath you.”

“Do people think I’m an alcoholic?” Stan asked when Kyle began unbuckling his pants. He’d never even been able to come down on one side or the other about Randy’s drinking. It had sometimes been bad, but never truly awful. Stan didn’t want to be that kind of father, either way: ambiguous, open to interpretation, the kind his kids would later wonder about. _Was he abusive, technically? In a minor way? Did he neglect us, did he have some kind of disorder? Do we now have some kind of disorder, because of him? Were we born with the disorder, because of him?_

“Hey,” Kyle said. “Are you even listening?”

“What? No. Sorry.” 

Kyle tapped his fingers against Stan’s cheek in a kind of playful slapping motion. It didn’t hurt, but Kyle looked worried about him while doing it, and that hurt. 

“Clyde is an idiot,” Kyle said. “He wants to use the fact that you were having a beer with dinner to excuse his inability to sexually satisfy his husband. Or something. He doesn’t even know you.”

“He does. Clyde has known me since I was four.” 

“Not really. Not like I have.”

Stan wanted to kiss Kyle for saying so, and it nearly knocked him over to remember that he could, finally: this was fully a thing, Kyle had said so, and that meant Stan could kiss Kyle whenever he wanted. It still seemed unreal, and kept hitting him with delayed-release adrenaline bursts that made the actual kissing so much better than anything he’d done with anyone else. He cupped Kyle’s face in his hands, closed his eyes, and tasted corn chips when Kyle opened his lips for the kiss, his tongue sliding against Stan’s.

“It’s just South Park,” Kyle said when he pulled back to stroke Stan’s cheeks. “Everybody thinks they know everything about everyone else, but for the most part they don’t know shit. You know?”

“I know.” 

The murders were a particularly stark example of this truth. Stan was still hoping that the killer was an outsider, but he had a bad, persisting, gut feeling that it was somebody who had been inside their houses and copied off their homework, someone who waitresses and store clerks knew on a first name basis. Somebody who went to church, volunteered to oversee the Easter egg hunt. Stan shook his head. His knees felt weak, and his bangs were stuck to his forehead. Kyle was still stroking his cheeks. 

“You had a hard road here,” Kyle said. “Like all of us. I guess Clyde did, too. We’re all just doing the best we can.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Stan said, and he pinched his eyes shut tight when his voice broke. Kyle stood up onto his toes and kissed Stan’s left eyebrow, then the right one. 

“Sometimes I hate that you feel like the only real person I ever knew,” Kyle said when Stan opened his eyes again. “And then sometimes I love it. It feels like this bubble, and only me and you can breathe the air inside. Anybody else would choke on it.” 

“Well, I can’t breathe when you’re not here,” Stan said. “It’s like breathing through a straw.” 

“You’re just saying that because I’m standing here in front of you, and because someone threw a drink on you.” 

“What? No, I’m not.”

“Stan, go. Get in the shower. The water pressure here sucks, but I hate that Clyde’s gunk is in your hair. I can’t stand it for another second, really.” 

Stan did as he was told. Standing under the hot water, he felt not just defeated but beaten. Kyle had basically rescued him at Brown Burro, which was embarrassing. By tomorrow everyone in town would know that Clyde had screamed accusations about Stan making a cuckold of him with Kevin. When Stan considered how long these rumors would take to reach Wayne’s ears, he had to exit the shower and get sick into the toilet.

“Jesus,” Kyle said, entering the bathroom. He was naked, and partially hard. “Stan, it’s not the end of the world.”

“You don’t understand,” Stan said. He was crouching on the floor in front of the toilet, dripping everywhere. The shower was still running. “I’ve been avoiding this for eleven years. Now it’s happening, and for the worst reasons.” 

“I see,” Kyle said. 

“I don’t mean you,” Stan said when he heard how that sounded. He peeked over his shoulder at Kyle. “I meant because of my idiotic mistake with Kevin. I never should have done that. I’ve messed everything up.” 

“It was pretty stupid,” Kyle said. “I won’t pretend I wasn’t surprised to hear that you’d finally left your marriage just to break up another one. But, just. Come here, please. That floor is filthy.” 

Kyle helped Stan up and back into the shower, moving slowly, as if Stan had physical injuries. Once they were under the water again, Stan waited for permission to collapse, searching Kyle’s eyes. Kyle seemed angry, tired, but also as if he was getting off on his own sense of moral superiority, at least a bit, like old times. He was still hard. 

“How am I going to explain this to my kids?” Stan asked. “I’m not my dad. I care what they think. I don’t want them to be embarrassed.” 

“Everybody embarrasses their kids sooner or later,” Kyle said. “And you’re not like Randy, for god’s sake. Clyde was just trying to hurt you, because you’d hurt him. It was a low blow, but so was fucking Clyde’s husband. I liked seeing you with your kids that morning, by the way. Going to stupid Blueberry Junction, the whole thing. I didn’t think I would want to do any of that, but it was nice. It seems like you all basically make each other happy.”

Stan pulled Kyle to him, trying to hug him hard enough to communicate how much he’d needed to hear that, and how much he just needed Kyle, period, always. Kyle rubbed Stan's back, kissed his neck, and it felt like maybe he knew. Stan wanted to stay in there for a long time: until the hot water ran out, until the sun came up, until Kyle decided to move back to South Park for good. He’d washed his hair twice and could still smell that margarita. 

“But how will I explain it to them?” Stan asked when Kyle turned the water off. “The kids, I mean. About me.”

“I can’t tell you that,” Kyle said, and Stan nodded. He’d known that before asking. “I’m sorry,” Kyle said. “It’s a big thing, and it’s just not in my wheelhouse. I wish I could help.” 

“It helps that you’re here.” 

“Good.” Kyle kissed Stan’s cheek and gave him a seductive look that was pretty bizarre, considering Stan had recently vomited and nothing else about the evening so far as been less awful than that. “Want your dick sucked?” Kyle asked. 

“It seems wrong,” Stan said, though he was getting hard from Kyle's subtle but persistent thigh bumps against his cock. 

“True,” Kyle said. “Maybe you could take me into that motel room and fuck me instead. If you’d like.” 

“Are you serious?” Stan hadn’t expected their first time together to launch from such a precarious platform. “Right now?”

“Sure. I hate that Kevin has had you. Either of them-- both of them. And I’ve just been wanting it. I’ve been wanting it, Stan.” 

There was something perfect about the way Kyle said so, despite everything else: he'd been wanting it, and Stan had the power to give it to him. Stan grabbed some towels and made drying Kyle off into a kind of ritual. He dried Kyle's damp skin slowly, methodically, until he could see Kyle chewing his lip to hold in nervous laughter. When he was done he picked Kyle up and carried him to the bed. 

“We have to be quiet,” Kyle said as Stan lowered him to the pillows. “The walls are thin, and Mac knows too much about me already.” 

“He doesn't know we're-- together?” Stan was afraid he'd overstepped a boundary with that word, but Kyle didn't seem bothered. He shook his head.

“Mac called this as soon as we got the assignment,” Kyle said. “He told me I'd be in bed with you within a week. I think that was pretty accurate.” 

“He-- how would he know?”

“Because I told him about you. He's my best friend.” 

“Don't say that,” Stan said, pinning Kyle's shoulders. “Jesus, please, you can't say that.” 

“Shh,” Kyle said. “Don't get all broken up. You're more. You've always been more than that to me.” 

Based on the past week of half-clothed blow jobs and desperate rutting, Stan had assumed his first time with Kyle would be frantic, featuring bitten kisses and shameless grunting that would be heard three rooms down. It was so quiet that Stan's eyes leaked a little, toward the end, mostly because he knew this was how it would have been back then: senior year, nearing summer, every noise they made a careful whisper that couldn't be overheard by their parents, their overheated nakedness half-hidden under the blankets in one of their childhood bedrooms, and both of them asking the other in the softest voices they'd ever used with each other: _are you okay?_

Stan nodded when it was Kyle's turn to ask the question, and he let Kyle wipe his cheeks dry. He felt like he was lying, though he was okay. He was something else, too. It was less secure than okay but also better, bigger, and worth the risk.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter after this, then the epilogue! Thanks for all your comments and questions; I love talking about this story and I'm curious to hear what people think of the developments in this chapter.

In the days following the incident at Brown Burro, Stan was on constant alert. For what, exactly, he wasn't sure, but he knew that a fallout was forthcoming. He was at least expecting Kevin Stoley-Donovan to show up and further berate him, but both Kevin and Clyde seemed to have gone underground following Clyde's attempted assault with a margarita. After two days with no apparent repercussions, Stan heard from Kenny that Clyde and Kevin had gone on vacation to Iceland.

“How the hell do you know that?” Stan asked. They were at the safehouse; Stan was on shift and Kenny was authorized to visit under Stan's supervision. Patrick had gone into his room to sleep without addressing Stan, which probably meant he’d heard about the margarita incident and either didn’t want to deal with it or thought Stan was beneath reproach at this point. Kevin and Karen were watching _The Lion King_ on DVD in the living room beside the small kitchen where Stan and Kenny were having coffee. Neither of them had made mention of the drama with Clyde, but he had no doubt that they both knew all about it. Stan was tense, keeping the corner of his eye on the McCormick siblings at all times, itchy with the fear that one of them would disappear into the shadows at the corners of the room and resurface days later, tongue-less. He didn't like the safehouse shifts.

“Or maybe it was Ireland,” Kenny said.

“Who even told you there were going on vacation?” Stan asked.

“I don't remember. Maybe my mom?”

“When does your mother see Kevin or Clyde Donovan socially?”

Stan kept his voice low, not sure if Kevin McCormick would be offended by his interest in the other Kevin's whereabouts, or by the information that they had been sleeping together. Stan was confident that Kevin M. had never expected fidelity as part of their arrangement, but it was possible that he might find it obscurely offensive that Stan was also sleeping with the only other person in town who shared his first name.

“The point is,” Kenny said, waving his hand over the table, “Those two are out of your hair for now. In some completely different country. I'm pretty sure it starts with an 'I.'”

“That's great, Kenny. Obviously that solves the problem of everyone else in town talking about what happened. Including your mother, apparently.”

“It's kind of good, though,” Kenny said. “It lets people know in a broad way that you're, you know. Seeing men. They hear about this, they see you with Kyle--”

“How is that good, Kenny? Why?”

“Because then you don't have to make some big announcement on the steps of city hall, or whatever the hell you were afraid of.”

“What I was afraid of, and continue to be afraid of, is my children feeling betrayed by this information. Them hearing that my gay lover threw a drink on me while his husband sulked across the room. I'm not afraid of confronting Clyde or Kevin, or people talking about it behind my back. That already happened, that part's over.”

“Stan,” Kenny said, and he laid his hand on Stan's forearm. “You're getting worked up.”

“Well, I'm panicking! I feel like my window for telling the kids myself is closing, and I'm not ready.”

“What does Kyle think?” Kenny asked. Stan scowled, though he had gone over this with Kyle several times already, wanting advice. Kyle was steadfast in his refusal to give any, which Stan both respected and resented.

“Kyle doesn't know how to handle this any more than I do,” Stan said. “Why would he?”

“He came out to Sheila and Gerald, and to Ike. And to, you know, all of us.”

“That's not the same thing. These are my kids. I'm their dad. They don't want to hear about this shit at all, from me or anyone else.”

“Maybe what they want,” Kenny said, holding up his finger, “Is not as important as what they need.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The worst part of hearing that was knowing that Kenny was right. Stan stared down into his coffee cup, miserable. There had been no murders since the events of that evening at Brown Burro. This was obviously good, but also left Stan with nothing to think about except his own personal drama, and the town with nothing else to gossip about.

“It'll work itself out,” Kenny said.

“Bebe thinks I should nip it in the bud and talk to them about it as soon as possible,” Stan said. His face got hot when he considered how that would go: Wayne's forced stoicism, Evan's confused distress.

“I guess Bebe is big on definitive conclusions,” Kenny said.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” Kenny sat back in his chair and shrugged, hugging his coffee cup to his chest in a very old man-ish way. “She thinks every interpersonal relationship has a universal solution.”

“Interpersonal relationship?”

“I think that's the right terminology,” Kenny said, frowning. “Anyway, she's still mad at me.”

“Because of the murders?”

“What?” Kenny snorted. “No, Stan, she doesn't think I'm responsible for the murders.”

“That's not what I meant! That fight you guys had on my birthday, because she thought you were being insensitive or whatever.”

“Oh, we're past that. She's mad because I dared to imply that she wants to get married.”

“To you?”

“No-- yes? I don't know, it's complicated. Hey, how's Kyle?”

“You know, Bebe does the same thing,” Stan said. “When I ask her about you.”

“What now?”

“She turns it around on me and brings up Kyle.”

“So? It's a brilliant strategy. Great minds think alike. How's Kyle doing, Stan?”

Stan drank from his coffee and turned to look at Kevin and Karen. They both seemed increasingly miserable as their stay in the safehouse continued, and Stan felt responsible. At first, only Patrick had given him passive aggressive attitude during his shifts. Now Karen was beginning to look at him without her customary friendliness, and Kevin had stopped winking at him in a suggestive way.

“Do you think your brother knows about me and Kyle?” Stan asked when he turned back to Kenny, whispering. Kenny raised his eyebrows.

“Um, yeah,” he said.

“How? Did he see us around town?” Stan had attempted to be discreet, outside of the motel, for the kids' sake.

“I told him,” Kenny said.

“Seriously?”

“What, you're mad? My brother already knew you were gay, Stan. You did gay stuff with him. The secret was out.”

“I'm not-- it's not entirely my secret to tell, okay? Kyle might not want people thinking we're. Whatever.”

“What does Kyle think you two are?”

Stan opened his mouth to respond, and he felt like a fool when it hung open, Kenny’s expression morphing from teasing delight to uncomfortable sympathy. 

“We’re having fun,” Stan said. It came out flat and unconvincing, though it wasn’t a lie. “We both really missed each other. And now we’re both. Comfortable. With our attraction. To each other.”

“Dude,” Kenny said, patting Stan’s arm again. “It’s okay. You don’t have to spell it out. Bebe is, of course, concerned.” 

“Yeah, well. Maybe I’m concerned about her, too.”

“Because of me?” Kenny looked hurt. Stan shook his head. 

“You’re not the problem,” Stan said. “But neither is she. You two are weird in that way.” 

“We could both do better?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. It’s like. There’s something-- maybe it’s to do with having grown up together. Maybe that’s why me and Kyle just flounced off each other for so long.” 

“I don’t know,” Kenny said. “There are plenty of South Park couples who make that work.”

“Like who? Your parents? Clyde and Kevin? Me and Lola?”

“Alright, alright. So what, we’re all doomed?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It kinda is what you said.” Kenny did the hand wave thing over the table again. “Anyway, Bebe’s wrong about Kyle,” he said.

“What did Bebe say about Kyle?”

Kenny made another vague hand gesture and gulped from his coffee in a conspicuous fashion. Stan turned to check on Kevin and Karen again. They were still sitting just where they’d been the last time he looked. He was tempted to get up on check on Patrick, too. Patrick was asleep in a windowless room and all the doors of the safehouse were bolted from the inside, but there was something almost supernatural about this killer’s ability to slip into the lives of his victims and disappear once the blood had been drained.

“What did she say about Kyle?” Stan asked again, rising from the table. Kenny snorted. 

“You gonna fight me if I don’t disclose this?” he asked.

“No. I’m going to check on Kevin. But I want to know what Bebe thinks. The unfiltered version, I guess. She’s being so weird about the whole thing. Like I’m this tender teenager who doesn’t know what it’s like to have his heart broken.”

“Well, do you?” Kenny asked. “Do you actually know what that’s like, Stan?”

“Of course I do! I’m divorced! And Kyle-- you know we hadn’t spoken in eleven years.” Stan lowered his voice to a whisper, though Kenny’s siblings didn’t seem to care about his love life as much as they did about the climactic action of _The Lion King_. “You know that broke my heart,” Stan said. “When Kyle and I stopped being friends.”

“That’s different,” Kenny said. “And so’s your divorce. Your detachment from both of those relationships was mutual. You weren’t fighting for Kyle when you guys drifted apart. You certainly weren’t fighting for Lola.”

“So Bebe thinks I’m going to fight to keep Kyle and lose? Is that it?”

“Go check on Patrick,” Kenny said, shooing him away. “Who cares what Bebe thinks? She’s the dysfunctional one, not me.” 

“Right. You’re just the one who disappears.” 

“I don’t want to disappear,” Kenny said, and he looked so suddenly broken up that Stan felt terrible.

“Forget it,” Stan said. “Obviously I don’t know what I’m talking about. But neither does she when it comes to me and Kyle. And maybe it won’t last, but so what?” Stan felt that land with a thud between them, and he was certain that Kenny would see through it. “I’ll be right back,” Stan muttered, and he headed down the hallway to make sure that Patrick was still safe. He was fast asleep when Stan peeked into the room, and Stan ducked out quickly when he experienced a surge of something like fondness arising from his relief that Patrick was still safely tucked into bed. Like Kevin, Patrick’s face had a very innocent quality when he was asleep. 

The inhabitants of the safehouse all survived Stan’s shift, and Patrick even accepted coffee from Stan when he woke up and resumed his protection of Kenny and Karen. Stan had heard chatter at the station that indicated the safehouse might not be in operation much longer, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. A week with no murders could only be interpreted as a good sign, but if the killer was attempting to wait out the duration of the remaining siblings’ protection, there could be no end to their seclusion in the safehouse that would make Stan comfortable, even if they stayed there for a year. 

On the drive home, he realized that this impractical approach to protecting potential victims of South Park’s serial killer was not unlike how he had handled coming out to his children, or to everyone else for that matter. He didn’t want to hurt anyone with the information, so it seemed wise to keep everything as it was, just in case. Once, Kyle had been among the people Stan protected this way, even when he rolled close to Stan and waited to be kissed. There just seemed to be too much potential to do damage, especially then. 

Stan texted Kyle about getting together that evening, skipped a shower and went directly to bed. He woke up to his alarm at five o’clock in the evening and lazed in bed for a while, palming his half-hard dick and thinking about fucking Kyle again. The warmth of his bed sheets and the frost on the window also brought to mind cuddling, holding each other under these blankets and waking up more slowly than they had when Lola and the kids were suddenly in the kitchen. Kyle had agreed to spend the evening at Stan’s house for the first time since that incident. Stan had promised ten times that there were no other social engagements that had slipped his mind, and that nobody who would barge into the kitchen while Stan cooked dinner for Kyle. He’d shopped for the occasion last night: tuna steaks, bok choy, risotto, and he’d even gotten Meyer lemons to squeeze onto the fish. It had been his first time at Whole Foods since he’d arrested a man who slapped a child there last year.

On the drive to work he got a bad feeling that came on like a stomachache, irritating verging on uncomfortable, a gut-pinch that made him lean forward toward the steering wheel. It was cold out, just a couple of days before Halloween, and the darkening sky was blanketed with lumpy gray clouds. Stan still needed to text Lola about letting Wayne trick-or-treat, though it was possible that Wayne wouldn’t want to do it anymore if he knew that Stan supported it. Stan hadn’t heard from Lola or the kids since the Brown Burro thing. It was normal, if the kids didn’t need anything out of the ordinary: two and a half days of radio silence from the house that had been his home for eleven years. But it didn’t feel normal this time. 

He was early for his shift, planning to kill all his overdue paperwork in the morning instead of the afternoon. He wanted to get home early, too, to start on the dinner for Kyle, or maybe to have sex with him before starting on the dinner. The parking lot was empty except for a few cruisers and one gray Nissan that a woman in a stylish coat was leaning against. Stan recognized her when he climbed out of his car: Nichole, previously of his elementary school class and presently of _The Denver Post_.

“Everything okay?” Stan asked. She was smiling, holding a to-go coffee cup with two hands. 

“Yeah, fine,” she said. “You like coffee?”

“Um. Yes?”

“You sound like you’re not sure.” She passed him the cup she was holding. “I got that for you.” 

“Okay. What-- the hell?”

Nichole laughed. They had never really been friends in school, but they had moved in the same circles. Her parents were kind of weird, according to Token. She had always held herself apart from South Park a bit, probably because she had arrived there fully formed. Gary had been the same way, despite his effervescent friendliness.

“I was just wondering if you’d be willing to talk,” she said. “About the current state of the investigation into the killings.”

“Oh, no,” Stan said. “I can’t, not on record. I’d get majorly fired. Random officers don’t do statements on behalf of the department.”

“I know,” Nichole said. “I just meant on a friendly, off the record basis. My boss is kind of on my ass to keep this story a big deal in the city paper, and it’s tapering a little since there haven’t been any leads announced. It’s too early in the media blitz for the trail to go cold, and it seems unlikely that it actually could, with all the murders having happened in such close succession. Can you point me toward anything they’ve come up with? Just in a general sense. I swear I won’t tell anyone we talked.” 

“This is not a great place to have this conversation,” Stan said, glancing at the station. 

“True. I just thought it would be rude to show up at your house. And Bebe got mad at me when I asked her the same thing, so she wouldn’t give me your number. What’s going on with her, anyway?”

“She’s stressed,” Stan said. He felt achy with the need to comfort her, though he knew she wouldn’t want that during their shift. “And she’s very, you know. Principled about this stuff. She’s loyal to the department, and so am I.” 

“Of course!” Nichole said. “And your department isn’t even handling the investigation at this stage, so what information could you really betray? I’m not asking for the kind of inside stuff that the FBI is working on. I’m talking about the mood of the town, anything weird you might have noticed during your normal shifts. Any seemingly minor altercations that might have been a botched attempt at a fourth murder?”

“You would have heard about it if somebody managed to escape from having their tongue cut off.” 

“I don’t mean anything that obvious. I’ve been paying attention to your blotter this past week, since it’s been quiet on the murder front. You’ve had a couple of incidents-- no assaults, but one report of a break-in and three calls from people who’ve been worried about suspicious characters hanging around near their houses.”

“We’ve responded to all of those with utmost caution,” Stan said, and he was annoyed when he felt like he’d been tricked into giving some kind of official statement after all. Bebe had been smart to shut this down. “It was nothing,” Stan said, backing away from her, toward the station. “People are nervous, that’s all. Understandably.” 

“Of course, of course. But this other incident, the break-in at the Denkins ranch. Was property stolen, or was this a prowler that got chased off? The blotter only mentioned the break-in.”

“What’s it got to do with anything?” Stan asked. “That wasn’t some murderous psycho, trust me. It was a punk who spooked the cattle and stole some equipment from the barn.” 

“Equipment?” Nichole said. She pulled out her phone. Stan shook his head.

“That was off the record,” he said. “And I’m not saying anything more.” 

“Stan,” she said, friendly again, smiling. Stan remembered her on the cheerleading team with Bebe, their plastered-on grins for the football crowds. “Please, trust me. I don’t even have anything to write about yet, for one thing. And your name would never appear if I did. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate as it is.”

“Excuse me?” Stan stopped backing away, the coffee cup halfway lifted to his mouth.

“Oh, um.” Nichole stuffed her phone in her coat pocket and shrugged. “I just heard Clyde Donovan hit you, or something.” 

“Or something,” Stan said. He was getting hot around his collar, feeling exposed. He checked the front windows of the station. Nobody seemed to be watching them. “Clyde threw a drink at me,” Stan said. “I guess you heard why.” 

“I heard a few things. Kyle’s still in town with the FBI, right?”

“Yes. He’s here.” 

“That’s good. You guys are finally back together, huh?”

“What? No. I mean--” Stan dragged his hand through his hair and turned away from her, then back. “We’re still friends,” he said tightly. “We weren’t together, ever. Back then.” 

“Oh, right, well. We all sort of thought-- anyway, that’s none of my business. Tell Bebe to call me. I didn’t mean to piss her off. I’m just trying to get my head around what’s happening in this town, like everybody.” 

“Sure,” Stan said. “Good luck with your story.” 

The station was quiet when Stan pushed inside, still feeling jumpy from that encounter and from his apparent inability to exercise discretion. Bebe hadn’t shown up yet. Stan logged into his workstation, already aware that trying to do paperwork when he felt this agitated wouldn’t go well. People weren’t only talking about him and Kevin and Clyde’s subsequent meltdown. They were talking about him and Kyle, and apparently they had been before some time, before anything had ever happened. 

He did what he could at his desk and was relieved to go out on their shift when Bebe came to collect him for it. They took her cruiser, and Stan sat in the passenger seat debating whether or not to bring up the Nichole thing. He couldn’t bring himself to say much of anything not work-related until they were sitting in the parking lot of the closed-down City Sushi building, which had briefly been a Pizza Hut before being boarded up. 

“I have to tell my kids the truth,” Stan said. They’d gotten City Wok for dinner, and he kept his eyes on his fingers as he wiped some sticky sauce residue that had leaked from an egg roll. He could feel Bebe watching him, waiting to know what to say.

“I know,” she said when Stan finally looked up at her, and she put her hand on his knee. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t want it to happen this way for you, with everybody else knowing first. Thinking they know, anyway.”

“Yeah, well. I guess I’m the architect of this whole disaster. What?”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling more widely. “You sound like Kyle. ‘The architect of this disaster.’ That’s like something Kyle would say.” 

“Great. Apparently everyone thinks we were fucking back then, and they already know all about what’s going on now.”

Bebe shook her head. “Only you and Kyle really know. But I think people are just happy to have something fun to talk about, after all the tragedy and horror and whatnot.” 

“Me and Kyle are fun?”

“Well, yeah. Compared to finding out another person has been killed by the tongue slicer, you getting drenched by Clyde’s margarita is a barrel of fucking laughs.” 

“Ugh,” Stan said, wincing at the comparison. “The tongue slicer? Is that what the papers are calling him?”

“No, they’re calling him the Park County Ripper. Classy, right?”

“Did Nichole make that up?”

“I doubt it. She’s more subtle. Usually, anyway,” Bebe said, mumbling.

“She told me you guys fought.”

“She-- what? When?”

Stan explained about the run-in that morning. Bebe rolled her eyes a lot. 

“It wasn’t like I thought she was trying to get me in trouble at work,” Bebe said. “I just don’t know what she wants me to tell her. Like I’m holding some secret clue that will unlock the whole thing, but I’m too dumb to realize it until I run it by her? Please.”

“Yeah, she seemed to think we might have overlooked an attempted fourth murder. I guess it’s not the craziest thing in the world, with all these freaked out people calling us every time their dog seems nervous.” They had gotten a call like that two days before. Suddenly the whole population of South Park had turned into Linda Stotch, seeing prowlers lurking in every shrub.

“I feel like I’ve been awake for a month,” Bebe said. “You know?”

“Yeah,” Stan said, though the past three weeks had felt more like a bizarre dream to him, shunting him from one intense and nonsensical experience to another. “Did Kenny propose to you?” he asked. Bebe snorted.

“Is that what he said it was?”

“Well-- no, not exactly.” 

“I think Kenny might be an alien,” Bebe said. Stan laughed, but she stared at him as if she was serious. “I’ve been researching,” she said. “You know, we get reports about UFO sightings from time to time. He was born on March 22, thirty years ago. Allegedly.” 

“I can’t tell what you’re actually talking about,” Stan said. “Where is this metaphor going?”

“It’s not a metaphor. There’s something superhuman about him, I’m telling you.” 

“Huh. Well. Never knew Kenny was that good in bed.” 

Bebe grinned. “The department shrink says it’s a coping mechanism, because thinking of him this way makes me like him more and want to forgive him. Like he’s this adorable creature from outer space who is just trying to fit in. I like thinking of him that way, at this point. Maybe you know what I mean?”

“Sure,” Stan said, though he had no idea. She smacked his arm.

“I meant with Kyle,” she said. “You have to reclassify them, sometimes.” 

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, cleared by the shrink weekly. Have you done any of your appointments yet?”

Stan groaned and thunked his head back against his seat, staring straight ahead through the windshield. So not everyone had forgotten about this. 

“You know they’re mandatory,” Bebe said. “I think you have ninety days to get them in.” 

“Great. I’ll calendar it for when things are less fucked up.”

“But therapy is supposed to help during times when things are fucked.” 

“Yeah, and I’ve tried it during those times,” Stan said. He hadn’t meant that to sound so sharp, and he reached over to tug on Bebe’s braid. “If Kenny is an alien,” he said, “What does that make Kyle?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Kyle’s so ordinary. I think you’re the supernatural creature in the relationship.” 

“He’s not ordinary.” Stan thought of Kyle’s suspenders, for some reason, and the way the fine red hair at the back of his neck, just under his hairline, dusted over his pale skin. Bebe shrugged.

“So he’s a mermaid,” she said. “I don’t fucking know. I’m not the one who’s in love with him.” 

“Are you in love with Kenny?” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” Stan assumed she was referring to his strategic subject change, a move that he had begun to overuse. 

“Don’t ask questions that you already know the answers to,” Bebe said.

Stan drove home from work that night trying to conceptualize Kenny as a sad alien and Kyle as a former mermaid who had earned a pair of legs that carried him away to places where Stan couldn’t follow. Though the thought was depressing, something about it was also arousing, as nearly everything had been since Kyle returned to Stan’s life. At home, Stan hopped into the shower and beat off under the steaming water, wishing that Kyle was already with him. When he turned off the water he could hear impatient knocking from the front door.

“What the hell!” Kyle said when Stan answered. Stan was still dripping, holding a towel around his waist. “I’ve been knocking for--” Kyle checked his phone, which he had clutched in one hand while he held the neck of a wine bottle in the other. “Seven minutes!” 

“I’m sorry,” Stan said, gathering him into the foyer. “You need a real coat.” He kicked the door shut and bolted it before turning to kiss Kyle’s neck, trying to warm him up. Kyle grunted but didn’t move away, even when Stan dripped on him. 

“I brought red,” Kyle said, lifting the wine bottle. “So I hope you’re not making fish.”

“I have tuna steaks,” Stan said. He felt bad about this, like he’d failed a pop quiz. “They’re marinating.” 

“It doesn’t really matter.” Kyle leaned up to kiss Stan on the lips, holding the rest of his body back a bit to keep his clothes from getting wet. “Did you do this on purpose?” he asked, glancing down at Stan’s bare chest. “To make me want you right away, as soon as I was through the door?”

“No, but you can have me right away if you want.” 

“Nah, I’m starving. I’ll just go wait in the kitchen with my semi while you dress.”

Stan was a little disappointed not to be asked to tend to Kyle’s immediate needs, but waiting until after dinner to fool made both of them a little punch drunk and giddy with anticipation. Kyle nipped at the back of Stan’s neck while he worked on the meal, and Stan caressed Kyle’s ass every time he delivered a wine refill. They sat close together at the kitchen table, the overhead lights turned off and an orange and black Halloween candelabra glowing in the center of the table. 

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Kyle said, lifting his hand to tap the paper ghost that hung from the center of the light fixture over the kitchen table.

“The kids had fun with it,” Stan said, and a familiar undercurrent of guilt snagged through his wine-drenched, lovesick haze. He didn’t want to make the whole situation even more alarming by disrupting the kids' routine, but every night he spent away from them was another chance for somebody to bungle the news before he could talk to them himself. They were coming over the night after next, which was also the night before Halloween. Mischief Night, if kids still called it that. Stan had no idea what he was going to say.

“I’m serious,” Kyle said. He spoke softly and laid his hand on Stan’s wrist, recapturing his attention. “I love all this Halloween stuff, and the fact that you own this little house, that these are your _plates_. I never thought I’d love being back here, but there are these pockets of South Park, when I’m with you, where suddenly there’s no place else I’d rather be.”

“You’re drunk,” Stan said. He grinned, trying to make the moment lighter than it was, for his sake and for Kyle’s. 

“I’m not a lightweight,” Kyle said. “Not anymore. I can handle half a bottle of wine.” 

“Hey, I know.” Stan dragged his chair over to Kyle’s and put his arm around Kyle’s shoulders, pulled him close. “I’m just teasing. You know I feel that way, too. Especially since I don’t live with the kids anymore, the town feels so gray and ordinary when they’re with their mom and I’m just--” Stan couldn’t come up with the right word. It was possible that he was pretty drunk himself; wine seemed to do that where beer could not. He shrugged. “You colorize my world,” he said.

Kyle scoffed and forked up a soggy piece of bok choy. He was smiling, but Stan couldn’t tell if he’d rescued the moment with that awkward line or not. 

“You were always too spectacular to end up here,” Stan said. He was afraid he sounded desperate. He needed this night, a reprieve where he could hide before he dropped the bombshell of his bisexuality onto Lola and the kids. He needed tonight to be gentle and easy, to fortify him.

“What even is this?” Kyle asked, squinting at the bok choy. “I didn’t think you could get exotic greens in South Park.” 

“We have a Whole Foods now.” 

“Right. I guess I noticed that. I think my mind course corrects for all the changes in town as soon as they’re out of sight. I revert to my memories of how things were.”

“I guess I can understand that,” Stan said. The truth was that he only wished that he could. 

Kyle put the bok choy down without eating it, and Stan noticed that he’d mostly just pushed all his greens around on his plate, leaving them to wither in the oily sauce from the fish. Kyle wiped his mouth with his napkin while keeping his eyes locked on Stan’s.

“This is somewhat momentous for me,” Kyle said. “You’re going to take me to bed, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Stan said, gripping the edge of the table. He was also willing to fuck Kyle right there, by the light of the Halloween candles and in view of his uneaten greens. 

“I’m going to get fucked in Stan Marsh’s bed.” Kyle exhaled slowly, and Stan opened his legs under the table to give his cock room to get hard. “That’s something I once thought about a lot,” Kyle said. “I built a shrine to the idea that I could never have you inside me, in your bed, because I wanted it too much for it to be a thing that could happen in the real world.” 

“Well,” Stan said. “Let’s burn down the shrine.” 

Stan was relieved when Kyle laughed. He had been a little nervous about the way this moment kept ballooning with things that might be considered climactic. Stan stood, sensing that Kyle wanted him to take some decisive actions. He took Kyle’s plate away and dropped it into the sink. 

“Go in my room,” Stan said when he turned. “And get yourself ready while I clean up.” 

“Ready?” Kyle pushed his chair away from the table. “You want me to put my fingers in myself? Ready like that?”

“Yes.” Stan wasn’t in the mood for laughing anymore. His cock was straining against the front of his jeans and his heart was hammering. He wanted to do this right, to meet Kyle’s expectations without having to hear him spell them out. “Get in my bed and get yourself slicked and open for me,” Stan said. “I’m going to come in there ready to fuck you hard. Understand?”

“I do.” 

Kyle stood, and Stan could see the outline of his dick through his tight pants, pressed along his thigh. Afraid he would crack a smile and spoil the mood, Stan turned to the sink and started on the dishes. The steam from the hot water deepened his full body flush, and his cock throbbed when he thought about Kyle peeling off his clothes in the bedroom, climbing into his bed, touching himself with trembling fingers. The last time Stan had slipped his fingers into Kyle he’d made the softest noise, a half-swallowed thing that Stan had wanted to lick off his lips. Kyle tended to get progressively louder as he let himself unravel and got closer to coming, but Stan still got the sense Kyle was always holding something back. He wanted Kyle to know that nothing he exposed would be mocked or used against him, not ever, not by Stan. If it took some kind of filthy sex scenario to prove that, Stan was ready, though it hadn’t really been in his plans for a romantic evening by Halloween-themed candlelight.

He walked into the bedroom expecting to find Kyle on all fours or naked and spread-eagle on the bed, but he was tucked into Stan's bed with the blankets pulled up to his chin. Kyle's smile was a little sheepish, as if he still thought he was getting away with something that something he wasn't really allowed to have. He had laid his clothes neatly over Stan's desk chair, his suspenders and gun belt looped diagonally across it. Stan shut the door behind him, though there was no one else in the house. He figured Kyle would feel more secure that way. 

“Did you get yourself ready?” Stan asked, working his jeans open. Kyle nodded. 

“Come feel how ready I am.” 

The dirty talk felt a little strange with Kyle tucked in like that, almost childlike with his chin poking out from the blankets, but Stan didn't want to stop. He had done some things like this with Kevin Stoley-Donovan, actual role play and plenty of filthy exchanges, but it had always felt a little flat, like they were staging the scenarios for some third party and not just for their own mutual enjoyment. Stan felt completely lost in talking with Kyle like this, bolstered by it and buying into it, both of them flushed and trying to play it cool as he slid under the blankets and groped for Kyle. He had thought he might come in here and dial it up to ten right away, maybe give Kyle's ass a little spanking if he was into it, but as soon as Kyle clutched at him under the blankets he knew that it wouldn't be like that tonight. Kyle didn't want Stan to burn his old shrine to this down: he wanted to be inside it with Stan, in worshipful awe of how good it felt to finally be together this way.

“That's good,” Stan whispered when he reached down to slide a finger into Kyle, keeping their faces close and his eyes locked on Kyle's as he did it. “Got yourself good and wet for me, huh?” Stan's bottle of lube was sitting on his bedside table, brazen. Of course Kyle hadn't had trouble finding it. 

“Stan.” Kyle clutched at Stan's bicep, curling his fingers in until Stan flexed. “Don't tease me.” 

“Shhh,” Stan said. He swiped his finger across Kyle's prostate and grinned when Kyle clenched up, gasping. “I was thinking I'd fuck you hard and fast, 'cause you need it so bad,” Stan said, murmuring this into Kyle's ear while he rubbed at his prostate in measured brushes of his fingertip. Kyle whimpered and turned to hide his face against Stan's cheek, his mouth falling open. “But now,” Stan said, “I'm thinking maybe I'll fuck you real slow, until you're begging me to slam into you so my dick hits you right-- here.” 

Stan pressed his finger in firmly as he said so, and he was surprised when Kyle shouted and came, thrusting desperately against the friction of the blankets. Stan leaned down to mouth at Kyle's throat when he threw his head back and pressed his lips together, breathing hard through his nose. Kyle's eyes were pinched shut, and there was something prudish or maybe petulant about it that Stan found adorable. He grinned when Kyle peeked at him, his chest still shuddering. 

“You're right,” Kyle said. His eyes were just short of glittering, not wet but thick with something held-in. “I need it so fucking bad, Stan.” 

“I know you do,” Stan said, speaking against Kyle's lips before parting them with his tongue. He kissed Kyle while extracting his finger in a way that was both gentle and, he hoped, effectively teasing. Stan’s dick was so hard he felt like he'd burst from tip to balls; he needed Kyle really fucking bad, too. He'd say so later, maybe, when they were cuddling in the afterglow. He didn't want to spoil the mood, because he loved the way Kyle was peering up at him like he believed Stan would give him what he wanted, and like he was still just a little bit afraid this was only a good dream. 

Stan was glad he'd had the foresight to beat off in the shower. He was so ready to be in Kyle that he would have gone off inside him at the first perfect clench of Kyle's muscles if not for that bit of forward thinking. As it was, he didn't last as long as he'd hoped to, but Kyle didn't seem to care. He stroked his hand through Stan's damp hair when Stan paused to breathe heavily and revel in their connection. Stan wanted to tell Kyle how sweet he looked when they were glazed with surrender, the sharper light within them mellowed into hazy trust. He was afraid any attempt to articulate this, especially during sex, would sound ridiculous or, worse, like a kind of gentle taunt about how vulnerable Kyle was in the moment. Stan didn’t have the words to make it come out right, and knew that he probably never would. All he could do while surrounded by the heat of Kyle’s body was groan and curse and give Kyle imprecise, too-wet kisses. 

When they were through, Kyle rolled against Stan’s chest and hid there, his eyes closed again. Though they had held each other every other time, this was somehow different from Kyle’s previous post-coital behavior. Usually he would sit up after some lazy nuzzling, press his hair down with his palms and ask Stan to get him a damp washcloth from the motel bathroom. He didn’t seem concerned about cleaning up even five, ten, twenty minutes after they had both begun to breathe normally again. Stan pulled up the blankets and held Kyle tight. 

“Bebe thinks Kenny is an alien,” Stan said. 

“She's probably right.”

Stan smiled and smoothed Kyle's hair. He'd missed this so much more than he could have known before having it back again: Kyle hitting every beat Stan laid down for him, always knowing what to say but never coming off as cavalier or polished. He was still a little tense against Stan's chest, holding onto him like they were dangling over a precipice and he was afraid he might be dropped.

“Please tell me nobody's going to burst in here in the morning,” Kyle said, his voice getting smaller with every word. “I really want to fall asleep believing, you know. That it's just you and me.” 

“It's just you and me,” Stan said, and he pulled the blankets up higher, until they touched Kyle's cheek. “I promise.” 

He wanted to say something more: about how much he had missed just talking with Kyle in bed at night, and how he'd never before used sex to really feel close to someone but always to hold people at arm's length, and how absolutely terrified he was to live so fully in this daydream life where Wayne and Evan would know that Kyle had shared his bed before joining them for breakfast, but Kyle fell asleep more quickly than Stan had expected him to, and Stan didn't want to wake him up for an impromptu therapy session beneath the blankets. 

In the morning there was a light dusting of snow on the ground. Stan felt like he'd missed something, like he should have stayed up to see the snowfall or roused Kyle in the middle of the night for more sex. He was worried that something was approaching that would put an end to everything calm and quiet, as if the thin layer of snow over his yard was a warning about an oncoming blizzard. He made cheese toast for Kyle, with fancy Whole Foods cheese, and served it with organic orange juice. 

Mac called during breakfast to say that he was on his way to pick Kyle up for the start of their work day. Stan and Kyle stood in the foyer like they were waiting for their school bus, breakfast dishes in the sink. It annoyed Stan that Mac always seemed to have purveyance over the rental car he shared with Kyle, though Mac didn't also have acquaintances in town who could give him rides. Kyle was wearing Stan's old bomber jacket, a relic from high school. Stan had insisted, expecting Kyle to put up a fight. Kyle had nodded and allowed Stan to help him into it, not mentioning that the snow outside was hardly serious coat weather stuff. 

“It'll be okay,” Kyle said when Stan peered down at him, rubbing his hands over Kyle's shoulders as if he was already out in the cold.

“I know,” Stan said. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” They hadn't talked about his forthcoming confession his children, but Kyle knew what was on Stan’s mind without needing to hear it out loud. He leaned up to kiss Stan's cheek. 

“You need a shave,” Kyle said. 

“I'll do it before my shift. You want to get dinner tonight?”

“I can't, I have a meeting with my boss. He's coming down from Denver to go over the status of the case. We have to have dinner with him and the assistant director of the department, it's this whole nightmare thing. They love Mac, so it'll be fine.” Kyle seemed to be trying to convince himself of this, his gaze drifting from Stan’s eyes to a point over his shoulder. The sleeves of Stan's coat were hanging over his hands. “And then you have your kids,” Kyle said. “The night after, so. I guess I won't see you until Halloween.” 

“That seems ominous,” Stan said. He regretted saying so, and smiled to show that he'd been joking, though he hadn't been. He pulled Kyle into a hug when they heard Mac's tires in the driveway. Stan held on longer than Kyle did, stalling his departure for the third time that morning. They had stayed in bed for a long time, and Stan had thought he'd want sex again, but they had only rubbed lazily against each other and talked about frothy, frivolous things that had happened when they were kids. 

“Thank you for last night,” Kyle said when he pulled back. “I loved it.” 

“We can do it again,” Stan said, no longer concerned that he sounded desperate.

“I hope so,” Kyle said. He looked very serious and a little paler than usual, as if he was coming down with something. “I consider you to be, you know. Back in my life again. If that's okay with you.” 

“Of course that's okay with me. Kyle, I love you.” 

“Oh.” Kyle smiled and put his hand on Stan's chest. His touch was light enough to feel slightly apologetic. Stan felt like he'd just yanked out one of his own organs, which was something he had wanted to do for Kyle ever since they were kids. Now he stood holding it in his outstretched palm, waiting to be told that it wasn't a good enough match. “Well,” Kyle said, and he backed toward the door, his hand sliding down and then off of Stan's chest. “I still love you, too.” 

“Still,” Stan said, nodding. “That's what I meant to say.” 

Kyle rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Mac honked the rental's horn in a short, almost polite bleat. 

“Wish me luck,” Stan said when Kyle opened the door. Stan felt like he was about to watch Kyle dive off the bow of a ship and into the same icy ocean that had parted them before. 

“You'll be fine,” Kyle said. 

“Good luck with your boss and everything.” 

“I don't need luck,” Kyle said. “I do this all the time.” He winked and slipped out the door. 

Stan stood at the front window and watched Kyle climb into the car. What would Kyle tell Mac about last night? Did Mac hate Stan over what had happened at Brown Burro? Did it matter? Could Kyle be talked out of what was happening, convinced not to love Stan anymore by a rational dialogue about where this was headed? 

That was Stan's main concern over the excruciating day that followed, leading up to the kids coming over on Mischief Night: how much would have to happen before the people who loved him decided that they didn't after all? Though he hated to admit it, even to himself, he'd felt vaguely abandoned by his mother ever since she moved away to be closer to Shelly and her kids. They had always had a special bond, but Sharon and Stan had been close, too. Bebe said Sharon had only ‘picked’ Shelly because she was the girl, but over the past few years Stan had been nurturing a suspicion that he was easy to leave behind. Lola had seemed relieved when they finally started talking about separating, and Kyle had turned his back on Stan so easily when they were in high school. Stan didn't think of himself as a quitter, but he didn't like the idea of fighting people on their urges to leave him behind. It seemed wrong, the kind of thing his father would have done. He knew he would have to fight to stay close to his kids when they were left reeling by the news that he wasn't precisely who they had thought he was. He knew, too, that he would be tempted to let them pull away, especially Wayne. He understood why the people he loved might want to be free of him, to the point that he often felt like he should help them pack their things when the time came for them to turn their backs in disgust. The problem was that he usually agreed that they would be better off elsewhere, without him. 

“You're a mess,” Bebe said in the early hours of the day before Halloween. Their shift would end at noon, and Lola would deliver the kids to Stan’s house after they finished school for the day. Stan and Bebe were sitting in a booth at their usual dinner, and Stan was mopping up the coffee that he had just spilled all over the table. 

“I shouldn't be drinking coffee,” Stan said. He hadn't slept well and needed the energy boost, but it wasn’t really worth the increased shakiness and sense of unease. “I don't even have a plan,” he said, his hands still full of soggy napkins. “Bebe, what's my plan?”

“The truth,” Bebe said. “The PG-13 version of the truth, anyway.” 

“Who wants to hear that their dad is bisexual? That's worse than hearing that he's gay. At least if he's gay there's a gender-specific reason he left your mom. They're gonna say, you know, they'll say--”

“Stan, they probably won't say much of anything. They'll be shocked and quiet and it will be hard for them and for you. You don't have to solve the whole thing in one night. Just accept that it will a bumpy, years-long process before all of you get completely okay with this.” 

“Is that what the department shrink would say?” Stan asked. Bebe shrugged.

“You could ask her,” she said. “If you think that would help. I'm sure she does emergency appointments--”

“No. That's the last thing I need right now.” 

“Really, Stan? _That's_ the last thing you need?” 

“You don't understand.” Stan shoved the wet napkins away and wiped his hands on his uniform pants. Bebe was giving him a humorless stare, but he wasn't really in the mood to get into a fight with her about the benefits of therapy or anything else. “I told Kyle I love him,” he said. Bebe's eyebrows went up. 

“What did he say to that?” 

“He said he still loves me, too. And he made a point of emphasizing the 'still,' like he was one-upping me during our mutual love confession.” 

“Is that really what he was doing, Stan?”

“Yes. I think so? I mean, you know Kyle. It was like he was all, 'oh, you love me, eh? Well, I _still_ love you, so your effort to impress me with this information is negated.'” 

“You sound insane,” Bebe said.

“I know.” Stan put his elbows on the table and his hands over his face. “Why am I afraid of my own kids? How does that happen? What's wrong with me?”

“You're not afraid of them, you're worried about hurting them and you hate the thought of being an imperfect father. There's nothing wrong with any of that. That's every good parent. It means you care.” 

“Sorry you keep having to give me pep talks,” Stan said, his hands still covering his eyes. 

“That's in the best friend job description,” Bebe said, and she smiled at Stan when he spread his fingers to peek at her. “And I’m pretty sure it’s also in the partner description, cop-wise. You'll be okay. You always agonize over this emotional stuff. It took you eleven years to leave Lola.” 

“I never should have married her.” Stan thought of Kyle on the day of the wedding, and the toilet they both got sick into, the sad stalls in the men's room at the back of the church. They both looked a little green in all the wedding pictures. 

“You did the best you could,” Bebe said. “You were a kid. I hope you're at least using condoms these days.” 

“You're worried I'm going to get Kyle pregnant?”

“No, but you've both been around the block a few times.” 

“We're using condoms,” Stan said, and he turned to see that their usual waitress had appeared with a stack of napkins. 

“You okay?” she asked when Stan thanked her and took them. 

“I'm fine,” he said. “Sorry about the mess.” 

“It's no trouble, looks like you cleaned it all up yourself. How's the investigation going?” She addressed this to Bebe, who shook her head. 

“Ask the FBI suits,” she said. “We're off the case.”

“That don't seem right.”

“You're telling me.” 

Stan didn't have much room in his current thought process for speculation about the murders or the fact that they seemed to have stopped. Kyle gave him bits and pieces of information about his and Mac’s investigative efforts, and he had promised to tell Stan all about the meeting with his FBI boss when they got together on Halloween night. Stan tried to keep that evening in mind as he drove home from his shift with both hands tensed around the wheel. Whatever happened with the kids, Kyle would be there the following night to hold his hand and talk him off the ledge.

At home, Stan knew trying to sleep would be useless. Even attempting to pay attention to a hockey game on TV was painful. He couldn't stop projecting onto everybody on the screen, imagining that the players, fans, and coaches had calm, happy evenings to look forward to, that they hadn't screwed up their lives as spectacularly as he had. By the time Lola's car pulled into the driveway Stan was on the verge of nausea, and as soon as Lola came through the door with the kids he could sense that something was already off. Evan threw her arms around him in greeting as usual, but Wayne barely looked up from his phone and Lola was stoic in what seemed like a pointed way, clearly tense. 

“What do you have planned for tonight?” she asked Stan, lingering near the door while Evan bounced onto the couch and started flipping through channels on TV. Wayne had drifted toward the kitchen after mumbling hello, his thumbs still moving on his phone. 

“Just dinner and some Halloween movies,” Stan said. “Did you guys finish making your costumes for tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Evan said. “Mom took pictures. Can I show Dad the pictures?”

“I'll send them to him,” Lola said. “I've got to get going.” She glanced at Wayne. “If you guys have everything you need?” 

Wayne finished whatever he was typing on his phone and looked at Lola, shrugged. 

“It's fine,” he said. “You can go.” 

“Are you doing a costume for Halloween?” Stan asked, desperate for Wayne to at least look at him. As soon as Wayne's gaze slid to Stan's it was obvious, undeniable: he had heard about Brown Burro, the margarita, Clyde's breakdown. He knew. 

“Why would I do a costume for Halloween?” Wayne asked. “I'm not in second grade. I'm not trick-or-treating. That's for little kids like Evan.” 

“He's really too old for it,” Lola said. There was an edge of apology in her voice, maybe more for Wayne’s benefit than Stan’s. When he tried to hold her gaze she looked away quickly. “I've got to go,” she said. “Call me if you need anything.” 

“Okay,” Stan said, though he got the feeling she'd been talking to Wayne. “Have fun, um. What are your plans for the evening?” He wasn't ready for her to leave, because whatever would happen next had already begun, and he was already flailing.

“Stan, you know, it's not really your business what my evening plans are,” Lola said, quietly enough to keep it from Evan, who was preoccupied with the TV. Lola hurried out the door and closed it hard behind her. When Stan turned back to Wayne he was already walking off toward his room with his bag. Stan had imagined talking to Wayne and Evan together, but he wasn't sure Evan really needed to hear anything about it until she was older. It occurred to him that the right course of action, based on the current climate, was probably to follow Wayne into his room and have the talk now, while Lola was distracted by the TV. 

“Excited about tomorrow?” he asked Evan, lingering near the couch like a coward. She smiled and nodded. 

“Candy,” she said. 

“Indeed. Hey, um. Is your brother okay? He seems a little. Upset.” 

“Wayne wants to trick-or-treat. He just doesn't want to admit it. He acts like he's too cool. His friends are mean.” 

“They are?” Stan glanced at the hallway. Wayne had closed his bedroom door. “They've been mean-- to Wayne?”

“They're just mean, dad. Like middle school boys are.” 

“Oh, yeah. I remember that. I'm gonna chat with your brother. You want a snack, some juice?”

“I can get it myself.” 

“Okay. Right. All right.” 

Stan forced himself to walk down the hall. It was already getting dark outside, almost four o'clock. He tried to imagine what he would have wanted Randy to say in this situation. Nothing, probably, but he wouldn't feel right sweeping this under the rug the way his father would have. He knocked softly on Wayne's bedroom door. 

“Buddy?” Stan said when there was no answer. He imagined finding the window open and Wayne gone, whereabouts unknown in a town where there was still a serial killer on the loose, no thanks to Stan. “Can I come in?” he asked, and he grasped the door knob. 

“What?” Wayne called out. Stan took this as invitation enough to step inside. He opened the door and surveyed the room: the window was still shut, and Wayne was sitting on his bed with his overnight bag unpacked beside him, as if he hadn't decided whether or not he was really going to stay. Stan assumed that Lola had told him he could run home to her if he needed to, and he was afraid that would be the inevitable outcome of the conversation he was about to have. 

“Can I come in?” Stan asked again, lingering in the doorway. 

“You are in,” Wayne said. “What do you want?”

“Just to talk for a minute.” Stan stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Wayne groaned and kicked his overnight bag onto the floor. 

“I don't want to talk about this whole stupid thing,” he said. “Mom said you would try to talk about it. She agrees with me that I don't have to talk about it if I don't want to.” 

“That's true.” An eerie calm settled over Stan as he sat on Evan's bed. In his panic over his inability to do anything to fix this he hadn’t realized how prepared he was to be battered by Wayne's anger, to be unable to say anything that would alter the course of his rage. There was a potential for peace in hearing whatever Wayne needed to say; Stan could at least be useful in listening to it. His response was never going to matter as much as his willingness to deal with his son's feelings. That was one thing Randy would have missed. It was one opportunity to do better, even if it still meant nothing could really be mended. “I just want you to know that you can ask me any questions you want,” Stan said. “If you have questions.” 

“I just said I didn't.” 

“Okay.” Stan looked to the window. The forecast was for a clear, cold night. On Halloween there was a chance of a wintry mix. “You really don't want to trick-or-treat?” Stan asked, hoping they could at least discuss this metaphorically. 

“Why would I?” Wayne barked. “It's lame and gay.” 

“I see.” 

“I can't believe you did it in high school. That's fucking stupid. Did people make fun of you?” Wayne's voice was breaking up a little, but he didn't even blink when Stan met his eyes. He was glowering, pink-cheeked. 

“Everybody did it back then,” Stan said. “I guess we thought we were being-- ironic, or something. Or just getting something for nothing. Free candy.” 

“Well, I guess everyone was stupid back then.” Wayne turned away from Stan and stretched out on the bed, his hands resting over his stomach. “Can you get out of my room, please?” 

“Okay.” Stan stood. It was easy, like it always had been, to imagine that the right thing to do was to walk away as soon as he was asked to go, but he knew this wasn't supposed to be easy. “Wayne,” he said. “I never cheated on your mother. I don't know what people are saying--” 

“I don't care what people are saying!” Wayne shouted. Stan flinched; Evan would hear their raised voices and would be scared. “It's not about me,” Wayne said, his face burning from pink to red. “It's you, not me. I can't control what you do.” 

“I don't want to embarrass you,” Stan said. His eyes were burning, but his voice was holding up well so far. “And I know that I have. And I'm so sorry--”

“No, you're not. You don't care. You pretend to care about us, but you left so you could do this, so that's great. Bye.” 

Wayne rolled onto his side, facing the wall. Stan waited, afraid at least one of them would start sobbing. Wayne had gone perfectly still except for the rise and fall of his side as he tried to control his agitated breathing. 

“You know I care about you,” Stan said when he was confident that he could speak without breaking down. “You and Evan mean more to me anything.” 

“Yeah, whatever. Okay. I know you got mom pregnant by accident. So don't act like--” Wayne's voice broke off there, and when Stan sat on the bed and tried to hug him he slapped Stan's hand away and launched himself off the bed like it had just caught fire. “Stop!” he said, turning back to Stan. “Just stop pretending! It doesn't matter. I don't even care.”

Wayne's eyes were red-rimmed, and Stan's were already wet. Evan would be terrified by this; Stan had even less of a bearing on how to talk to her about why things were tense and bad and terrible. There was no point of entry there, while Wayne at least was already angry.

“I'm so sorry,” Stan said. “I screwed up after I left your mom. I did something really stupid. But everything I did before that? I don't regret any of it. Please never think that you weren't wanted. There is nothing I'm even half of proud of in my life as I am of you.” 

“That's crap,” Wayne said. He used his sleeve to wipe his eyes. “You're just trying to make me feel better, but I don't even care. Can you fucking understand that? I don't care if you're proud or not. What you think means nothing to me, okay? Okay? Why are you crying? Jesus, stop!”

Stan shook his head and tried to dry his face. He shouldn't have cried; Wayne was right. Crying was the worst thing he could do right now. He heard Evan's timid knock on the door and wasn't sure what to do.

“Daddy?” she called. “Wayne?”

“It's okay, Ev,” Wayne said. His voice had mostly recovered, and Stan was tempted to think Wayne was therefore telling the truth about how worthless Stan's opinion was to him, though Stan had never quite managed to dismiss Randy's altogether, even when he was at his worst. “We're fine,” Wayne said. “Dad's just mad at me.”

“I'm not,” Stan said. “Wayne, I'm not mad at all.” 

“I don't care.” Wayne wiped at his face again and walked toward Stan, who experienced a brief but delirious hope that they would hug. Wayne moved around Stan and went for his phone, which he'd left on the bedstand. 

“I'm going to make sure your sister is okay,” Stan said. “And we can talk more tonight, or not. I just want to give you whatever you need to deal with this, because you're right that it's my problem, not yours, and you don’t have to deal with it on my terms, or at my pace.” 

“Whatever.” Wayne was closed off, pretending to be absorbed by his phone. Stan was alarmed by how deep Wayne's voice suddenly sounded, having broken up only to be paved over by his attempt at indifference. Stan wanted badly to offer even the smallest physical reassurance, to be allowed to touch the top of Wayne’s head or squeeze his shoulder, but he didn’t dare. When he opened the door he was surprised to see that Evan had left the hallway. 

“Honey?” Stan called, panic taking him off guard. In all this worst imaginings of how this night might go, one or both of the kids fled the house in tears and into the clutches of god knew what. South Park was no longer safer than any other town. “Evan?”

She was in the kitchen, sitting at the table as if she was the singular participant in Stan’s imminent intervention. Her expression was frightened, her face pale. When Stan knelt down and pulled her into a hug, she clung to him. 

“Don’t fight with Wayne,” she said, whispering. Stan shook his head.

“I won’t.” His voice almost broke up again, but he swallowed it down for her sake. “It’s okay for Wayne to get mad at me. Teenagers fight with their parents sometimes. It’s normal.” 

“Did you fight with your parents?”

“Sure, sometimes. Mostly with my dad.” 

“Will you fight with me when I’m thirteen?” 

“I’m sure we’ll have disagreements. But it won’t matter in the long run, because I love you, we’re family, and we’ll always be close. Okay?” 

“Okay.” Evan sat back and looked toward the hallway. There was only silence from Wayne’s room. “Are you still mad at him, though?”

“I’m not mad at him, honey. He’s upset because I embarrassed him. Unintentionally, but it was my fault and he’s right to be mad.”

“What did you do?”

“I, uh.” Stan had run through a lot of potential discussions that they might have about what had happened and what it meant about who he was, but trying to come up with an Evan-appropriate version of the events at the Brown Burro had not been fruitful. “I got into an argument at a Mexican restaurant,” he said. “You know the banana books?” 

Evan nodded. Stan hadn’t wanted Lola to buy them for her, but she had. Signed copies, even.

“Well, the guy who wrote those, Mr. Donovan, he felt disrespected by me, um. He’s a very sad man, in some ways.” 

Evan just stared, and Stan could see that he was losing her. He shrugged and went to the fridge to get her a snack. 

“Grown-ups in South Park step on each other’s toes sometimes,” he said. “It’s because it’s a small town, you know? We don’t have that much room to tip-toe around each other.” 

Evan seemed to consider this while Stan sliced off hunks from a block of cheddar cheese and set them on a plate with crackers. When he looked up to give her a smile she smiled back, a little uncertainly at first, and more widely when he passed her a cracker with cheese. 

“Guess what we did in class today?” she asked. 

“What?”

“We made chocolate-covered pretzels. For Halloween. You melt the chocolate, and you dip the pretzels in it, and then you put them on a cookie sheet and stick it in the fridge. We got to go in the teacher’s lounge.” 

“Cool,” Stan said. He wanted to insulate her in the purest light and never let any South Park gossip touch her, let alone anything more insidious. He knew she was making a conscious choice to not find out anything more about what Wayne was upset about, and that kids put these kinds of blinders on willingly all the time. Evan already knew how to protect herself, at least in this way, even if it was subconscious. She would rather talk about pretzels, and Stan decided he wasn’t weak for following her lead. She didn’t need or want to hear about his bullshit in detail at this point in her life. “Let’s watch a movie,” he said. “Wayne’s okay. He just needs to be alone for a little while.” 

Stan hoped this was true, and he listened intently for any sounds from Wayne’s bedroom while Evan munched on crackers and watched a witch movie that seemed like it was probably the same one they had watched last week. Stan was too distracted to really pay attention, and as dinnertime approached he was sweating whether he should fetch Wayne or let him come out of his room on his own terms. Stan had bought stuff to make Philly cheese steak-style subs, which was one of two dinners he actually made from scratch for the kids. He got up and started puttering around the kitchen, pulling sandwich ingredients from the fridge. Evan had nodded off on the couch toward the end of her movie. Stan wanted a beer, but he wasn’t Randy. He had accepted what Bebe had told him earlier: this would be hard. Doing it correctly meant enduring every long moment of it without a crutch. 

He was chopping green bell peppers when he heard his phone vibrating on the kitchen table. He assumed it was Lola calling to make sure that Stan hadn’t further traumatized their children in any irreversible ways, but as he crossed the kitchen he realized she would probably call Wayne’s phone first. Possibly they were already texting. When he picked up the phone he saw Bebe’s name on the screen and was instantly alarmed. She knew what was going on tonight with him and the kids. She wouldn’t have called if not for an emergency. 

“Was there another murder?” Stan asked when he answered the call, not pausing for greetings. He kept his voice low and turned away from the living room. “Hello?” he said when he could only hear breathing on the other line. “Bebe?”

“Yeah-- I’m here. And yeah, someone’s dead. Sorry, I’m kind of in shock.” 

“Jesus.” Stan thought of Kenny, and something in him pitched downward. He dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, his ass only partially connecting with the seat. “Who?” he asked, not wanting the answer.

“It’s Cartman.” 

“Cartman?” Stan’s stomach lurched when he pictured the scene: massive Cartman slashed open, tongue missing. 

“It’s not the Ripper,” Bebe said. “I just heard a report over the scanner about a 10-16 at a residence on Pine Circle. I was headed that way so I drove by to see if I could assist. It’s his house -- Liane’s house -- it’s him. He shot himself, he’s dead.”

“Wait.” Stan started to rise from the chair, then only shifted so that he was slumped into it more squarely. He turned to make sure Evan was still sleeping. “Cartman-- Eric Cartman? He. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, I’m at the scene. Something’s up, Stan. Yates is here, and there’s been a lot of whispering. I heard they found a note, and there’s some kind of complication.” 

“Is Liane okay?” 

“Well, she’s hysterical. She was out of the house when it happened. She found him, she. Yeah. She's unharmed, physically, but I wouldn't say she's okay.”

“Jesus. She didn’t deserve that. Finding him, I mean-- what a fucking-- but I can’t believe it, that Cartman would kill himself. That doesn’t seem possible.” 

“Why, because he had too high an opinion of himself? That was always an act, Stan. I was surprised, too, but it makes a kind of sense. Shit, I gotta go. Yates is calling everybody over.”

“Okay. Keep me updated.”

Stan put the phone on the table and took a deep breath, his hands resting over his knees. His first thought after Liane's well-being was Kyle's, and he wondered if he should call with the news. Kyle would feel strange about the whole thing, and it would certainly dredge up old, bad memories. Maybe he would also feel a sense of relief or closure, but it seemed unlikely, with this as the end of the story. Stan eyed his phone and decided to delay the call until he had time to process this himself. It was sad in a dispersive, almost irritating way: Cartman’s whole life had been a failed scheme, mishandled by everyone involved and especially by Cartman himself. It still seemed impossible to Stan that such a self-important, ruthless person had taken a hard look at his own demons long enough to decide to end his life. It occurred to him that the 10-16 call might have been made by a rookie who took Liane's interpretation of the crime scene for granted. It seemed far more likely that Cartman had been murdered, but Bebe had sounded confident on the phone, and she had at least spoken to the officers on the scene. Yates was there; he wouldn't misread a suicide. Bebe had mentioned a note.

Stan tried to refocus on slicing up the pepper for dinner, but his hands were shaking and he kept getting distracted by little things: checking and re-checking his phone, peeking in at Evan in the living room, poking his head out the back door when he thought he heard a noise from the yard. Finally he couldn't delay calling Kyle any longer, but as soon as he reached for his phone it rang, displaying Bebe's name again. 

“What's up?” Stan asked. “You talked to Yates?”

“Yeah.” Bebe sounded newly torn up; Stan could hear her choppy breath. “He, uh, he's called in the FBI.”

“For Cartman's suicide? Why?”

“Stan, the note. You can't tell anyone, this is confidential. Yates said he probably shouldn't even tell us, but he wanted to explain why the FBI was getting involved, why he had to pull us from the scene--” 

“What, Bebe? The note-- what?”

“It's a confession. I haven't read it, but. Yates said it's a confession to all three murders. Ruby, David, Mark.” 

“But that's not right.” Stan spoke without thinking, dismissing this on instinct, but his certainty persisted after he'd said it. “That seems fucked up, in a big way.” 

“Yeah.” Bebe let out a long breath. “The FBI will analyze the note, of course. And the crime scene. Fuck, Stan. You don't think. You don't think it's really over?”

“It just seems wrong. All of this. Maybe it's only because I'm hearing about it over the phone--”

“No, I know. It seems wrong here, too.” 

Stan heard footsteps behind him and turned expecting Evan, but Wayne was leaning in the kitchen doorway. He looked younger than he had in a while, like he'd just had a bad dream and needed a glass of milk. 

“I gotta go,” Stan said. “I'll be in touch. You don't think-- they won't call me in, will they?”

“I doubt it. Some of us are staying on scene for crowd control, but it's gonna be the FBI picking this apart from here on out. Jesus, Kyle-- have you talked to him?”

“No. Stay there, okay? He'll need a friendly face.” 

“Sure. Okay.”

Stan hung up with her and slid his phone into his pocket. Wayne still looked vaguely frightened, but he was also keeping his distance, and his posture didn't invite the reassuring hug that Stan wanted to give him. 

“Travis texted me,” Wayne said. “He said his neighbor shot himself. He said there's cops everywhere.” 

“Yeah.” Stan moved a little closer, cautiously, as if Wayne was an injured animal who might get spooked. “I just heard.” 

“He said it was that fat guy, the Cartman Cadillac guy from the radio commercials.” 

“Uh-huh. That's what I heard, too.” 

“Mom once told me you were friends with him when you guys were kids.” 

Stan felt his phone buzz with a new text, but he ignored it. 

“We weren't really friends,” he said. “I mean, I guess we were? But we definitely weren't, uh. We never had that much in common, and I had to arrest him more often than I saw him socially as an adult. You okay? I know it's pretty upsetting--” Stan struggled not to wince at his re-use of that word. “Just, suicide. It's scary.” 

“Scary?” Wayne huffed. “Like a ghost on Halloween? Why do you still talk to me like I'm the same age as Evan?”

“Bud, I don't--”

“Until I screw up, and then suddenly I'm this hardened criminal who needs to be screamed at.” 

“What's happening?” Evan asked, wandering in from the living room. She was rubbing her eyes, yawning, and Stan was glad for the interruption. That conversation hadn't been going anyplace good. 

“Just something from work,” Stan said. “But I'm not on duty, so I don't have to deal with it right now. You guys want to eat soon?”

He gave Wayne a pleading look. Some of the fury had drained from Wayne's eyes, and Stan wanted to apologize for always being able to tell when his kids were scared, no matter how old they got or how much they didn't need him to point it out for them. 

“Sure, let's eat,” Wayne said. “I’m hungry.” 

He walked over to put his hands on Evan's shoulders. She beamed up at him, and Stan's eyes burned a little when Wayne gave her a friendly jostle. He was growing up, for real, it was true. He wanted to protect Evan just as much as Stan did. 

“What's for dinner?” Wayne asked. His voice was still sharp, but not very. 

“Philly cheese steaks,” Stan said. “I was just chopping up the vegetables.” Stan’s phone was vibrating in his hand. He didn't want to answer it, wasn't ready to deal with the fallout of this next life-altering incident. He glanced down and was relieved to see that it was only Lola calling. “Whoops, that's your mom. Better get this-- Wayne, can you slice the sub rolls? They're over there on the counter.” 

Lola had already heard the news about Cartman. She wanted to know if the kids had heard, and if they were okay. Stan spoke to her from the living room and kept his voice low, reassuring her that they were fine. 

“I'm on a fucking date,” she said. “And this happens.” 

“Whoa.” Stan was a little alarmed by this information, mostly on the kids' behalf. “Who-- Is this the first time you're, uh. Seeing the individual?”

“I'm not going to discuss it with you right now. He's waiting for me. It's a man.” 

“I assumed it was a man.” 

“Yeah, well. I assumed whoever you were screwing around with was a woman, and here we are.”

“Lola, I wasn’t--”

“Sorry, I’m really nervous right now. I’m babbling. Sorry.” 

“It's okay. Look, get back to your evening. We'll talk later.” 

“I just can't believe it. Three murders and now a suicide. What the hell? They're not related, are they?”

“Uh, I don't know.” Stan wanted to tell her about Cartman’s alleged confession, but he didn’t trust that information yet.

“Maybe you can sleep on the floor in the kids' room,” Lola said. “Maybe don't let them out of your sight.” 

“I'll keep them safe. You don't need to worry about that.” 

They hung up, and Stan returned to the kitchen. Wayne had sliced the rolls as asked, and he was quiet but cooperative while the three of them made dinner together. Stan's phone kept dinging with new texts, and after a while he turned off the sound. None of the texts were from Kyle. 

Stan lit the Halloween candelabra when the sandwiches were done, but he didn't turn off the overhead lights. The kitchen felt cozy in a precarious way, a safe place surrounded too snugly by the darkness outside. He almost wanted to say a prayer when they all sat down to eat together, for the excuse to grasp Wayne's hand if nothing else. Wayne didn't say much during the meal, and Stan was too distracted by the thought of what was going on at Cartman's house to follow Evan's chatter about Halloween and what all of her friends were going to dress up as, but she seemed content with the occasional nod or one-word remark from him. 

“You're not doing anything to celebrate?” Stan asked Wayne when Evan paused to take a bite from her sandwich. Wayne shrugged. 

“I'll probably just watch some creepy movies with my friends,” he said. “And eat candy.” 

“Well, you can't have any of mine,” Evan said. “You have to trick-or-treat if you want candy.”

“I can eat from the bowl that Mom's giving out.” Wayne looked at Stan after saying so, as if he wanted confirmation that this was true. Stan nodded.

“But it's more fun to have a variety,” Stan said. “Plus, just walking around at night and getting it is fun.” He thought of the Cartman house, which would be barred off with crime scene tape on Halloween night. Kids would have a field day with that, and then there were the scenes from the recent murders. “Mom's taking you around with the usual group, right?” he said to Evan, and she nodded. “And which friend are you watching these movies with?” Stan asked Wayne. 

“Gabe,” he said.

“Who's Gabe?” Stan asked. 

“My friend.” 

“Well, obviously.” 

Stan's phone vibrated in his pocket. He wanted to answer it, but Wayne's willingness to talk to him as if things were still normal was a precious gift, and he wasn't going to squander it for anything. 

“Gabe is a guy who hosts parties,” Wayne said. “But it's not, like, a real party. There won't be girls. Or beer,” he added dryly, and Stan snorted. 

“Mom has talked to Gabe’s parents about this plan, I assume?”

“Of course she has, she's as paranoid as you ever since-- you know.” Wayne glanced at Evan. 

“Dad?” she said. 

“Yes?”

“Did they find that killer?”

Stan again thought of what Bebe had said about Cartman's confession. He wanted to tell Evan yes, but his gut told him no, and that what was happening to their town was far from over. He shook his head. 

“But the FBI has lots of clues,” he said. “They'll find him soon.” 

This, despite Stan's sense of foreboding, felt true. 

When the kids were installed in front of the TV and watching a ghost movie that Evan insisted she wasn't too young to see in its TV-edited form, Stan checked his phone. He had a missed call from Kyle. When he called back he got Kyle's voicemail.

“Hey,” Stan said, and he turned the kitchen sink on full blast for cover. “I saw you called, just. Bebe told me what happened. Jesus. Call me back when you can. I love you.”

Stan was afraid that sounded desperate, or atonal, blurted at the end of his message. He hung up and again felt the strong pull of the beers on the door of the fridge, but he returned to living room without getting one.

On the couch, the lack of sleep finally caught up with him. He passed out with his head tipped back onto the cushions and his arms folded over his chest. His sleep was uninterrupted and deep but not restorative, and he woke up with a jerk when Evan shrieked at something that was happening in the movie. Both the kids seemed startled by Stan’s panicked leap off the couch. 

“What-- oh.” Stan rubbed his hands over his face, and he was glad when Evan laughed. Wayne was actually grinning. “Sorry. I fell asleep.” 

“Daddy,” Evan said. “You were snoring. Wayne threw a pillow at you.” 

“It didn't help,” Wayne said.

Stan sat on the couch again, disoriented by lingering exhaustion. He thought of the Cartman house crime scene and dug out his phone, his panic returning. He had three missed calls from Kyle, and one text message:

_Please where are you. I need you_

Kyle being grammatically incorrect in a text message was a bad sign. Stan herded Evan toward bed, declaring the movie officially too scary for her. He figured she had probably come to that conclusion, too, since she offered up only minimal resistance. He'd planned to nudge Wayne toward bed after Evan was settled, but when he returned to the living room he realized this was an opportunity to treat Wayne like he wasn't a baby anymore, and to allow this tense but civil quiet between them stretch on a little longer before Wayne refreshed his outrage. 

“I have to make a call for work,” Stan said. “I'll be right back. There's ice cream in the fridge if you want some.” 

“We had some while you were asleep,” Wayne said.

“Jesus.” Stan checked his phone again. He'd been asleep for over two hours. “All right, um. Be right back.”

“Kay,” Wayne said, still looking at the TV. It felt like a bear hug to Stan after what had happened earlier.

Stan shut the door of his bedroom and dialed Kyle's number. He felt a bit guilty about letting the kids out of his sight on a night like this, though it wasn't as if he was actually going to sleep on the floor of their bedroom with a flashlight like a lunatic. Kyle answered on the third ring. 

“I'm so sorry,” Stan said. “With everything, I've been-- haven't been sleeping, and I just crashed-- jesus, fuck. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” Kyle sounded stony, like he'd made the executive decision not to lean on Stan after all. Stan had expected as much, but he knew Kyle was probably shaken enough to let the facade crumble if Stan poked the right places. “Mac is with me,” Kyle said. “We're back at the motel.” 

“Is it true? Cartman killed himself? He left a note, he confessed to the murders?”

“It's all true. He shot himself with one of the rifles that was stolen from the Denkins ranch last week. It's all in his note. I'm not really comfortable saying more over the phone.”

“One of the stolen-- one of Carl’s guns? Cartman was the one who broke in there?”

“Yes.” Kyle paused, and Stan imagined him getting up and slipping into the bathroom for privacy; he thought he heard a door close. “It's the same gun, ostensibly, as the one Carl used to kill Cartman's father. Before we knew Jack Tenorman was his father. This is all about that, apparently. The siblings, and what Cartman did to Scott Tenorman, his guilt. It's all in the note.” 

“Wait-- what? Cartman's guilt? He never felt guilty about anything. Not even about that.” 

“Well, perhaps not, in any sense that you or I could relate to, and maybe that's why he chose to murder three people before he finally killed himself. He didn't have the ability to empathize. He was a textbook sociopath from childhood on.”

“Do sociopaths kill themselves out of guilt?”

“No, and I’m sorry I used the word ‘guilt.’ That’s inaccurate-- his note is stream of consciousness lunacy, was probably written while he was drunk out of his mind, and I’d have to look again, but I’m pretty sure the word guilt isn’t actually in there. It’s not uncommon for sociopaths to commit suicide in desperation after going on a killing spree. Look, I can't go over all of this again right now. I'm exhausted. Can I, um. Could I possibly come over there?”

“Here?” Stan glanced at his bedroom door. He wanted Kyle with him, badly, but Wayne was in the living room, and throwing a Kyle-sized rock through this particular window of opportunity with his son wouldn't go well. “Um. You know I've got my kids, so--”

“Right, forget it.” 

“No, well, maybe--”

“Stan, you're right. It's late, you've got your kids. It was crazy to think-- look, I don't belong there. I'll be fine. Mac has Ambien.” 

“You do belong here,” Stan said, lowering his voice. “Kyle--” 

“No, it's just too much. Cartman is dead, we've got the confession. It all makes sense, I'm just reeling.”

“It all makes sense? I guess you know a lot more than I do, because from where I'm sitting this is not making sense at all.” 

“Why not?” Kyle asked, sharply. He was angry, hurt, and there was nothing Stan could do about it until Lola came to get the kids in the morning. “No, don't answer that,” Kyle said. “You're right, I know more than you do. About the case, and about Cartman. About how deeply, deeply sick he was. You never seemed willing to buy that he was anything more than a harmless buffoon, no matter how much damage he did to me, but I've got a signed confession that says otherwise.”

“Kyle, calm down.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Stan felt it so profoundly that he bit his tongue hard, wanting to sever its traitorous tip. Kyle let out a slow breath on the other line. Stan could feel him seething.

“Right,” Kyle said. “I'll be in touch.” 

“Wait,” Stan said, but Kyle hung up. 

Stan sat in the room with his phone for a while, trying to come up with something to text, an apology that would hold Kyle over until the morning. Stan was tired, and struck motionless by a sense of whiplash. He wanted to be out there with Wayne, absorbed in some movie, sharing companionable silence by the glow of the television. He wanted to be with Kyle, too, wrapped around him and hashing out the bizarre conclusion that Cartman's suicide purported to represent, but it wasn't going to happen tonight, and sending a groveling text in lieu of physical comfort would probably only make things worse. 

“What happened?” Wayne asked when Stan returned to the couch. “Was it about that Cadillac guy killing himself?”

“Yeah,” Stan said. It sounded so wrong: Cartman had killed himself. Stan would have had trouble believing it even if he’d been first to the scene when the body was found. It seemed impossible, and the idea of Cartman carefully plotting three murders was just as unreal. “But everything's okay,” Stan said. Wayne snorted.

Stan was drowsy as soon as he settled back onto the couch, and he fought off sleep when his eyelids grew heavy. He felt like he was being negligent in multiple ways, as if he should be helping out at the Cartman crime scene, holding Kyle’s hand after a difficult night at work, and having serious conversations with his kids that they would clearly rather avoid. Stan wanted to hide with them in the pretense that everything was still the same, mostly because, in the important ways, it was. He fell asleep twitching, anxious about all of the knots that he was not working to untangle. 

Stan dreamed that he was in Kyle’s childhood house. He was an adult in the dream, and the house was boarded up, dusty sunlight streaming into the living room from around the edges of the plywood that had been nailed over its windows. Stan knew he was dreaming as he moved through the rooms of Kyle’s old house. In reality, a family with young children lived there now. Still, he proceeded with caution, his flashlight darting through the empty rooms and illuminating cobwebs in corners. He was aware that he was looking for something, and that only the Stan in the dream knew what it was. They weren’t completely connected: he saw things from the dream-Stan’s vantage point visually, but he didn’t share his thought process. 

In the kitchen, the countertops were littered with rotting garbage: old milk cartons and egg shells, moldy bread, crusted dish towels. There was a boy standing at the back door, which was the only door in the house that wasn’t boarded over. It was the same screen door that Stan and Kyle had burst through on their way to the backyard hundreds of times as kids, lit with an eerie glow from the late afternoon sun. At first Stan thought the boy standing there was Kyle, some version of him that had not grown up with Stan but had been stuck here in this fetid stasis, ignored for too long. Then he realized it was actually his own son: it was Wayne.

“Buddy?” Stan tried to say, but the Stan in the dream didn’t speak. He raised a gun, not his department-issue handgun but a hunting rifle with a long barrel. Wayne turned. 

He wasn’t the Wayne that Stan knew. He was a young man with fuzz on his chin, but Stan was certain that this was Wayne, though his wide eyes were as blank as a stranger’s when they locked on Stan’s. 

“It’s already happening,” Wayne said, his voice shaking with fear that ripped through Stan, too. 

Stan woke without flinging himself off the couch this time, but he was shaken by the dream, his heart slamming. Wayne was asleep in the armchair next to the couch, sweet and harmless and nothing like the frightening apparition in the dream. Stan draped a blanket over Wayne and went to check on Evan. When he’d confirmed that she was safe in bed he returned to the couch and stretched out on his side, his eyes glazing over when he attempted to focus on the TV. He couldn’t stop hearing that wraith in his dream telling him what had felt like important information when he heard it there, in the ruins of Kyle’s childhood home: _it’s already happening_. Stan had no idea what that meant, but it still felt true, like both a threat and a warning that had come too late.


	9. Chapter 9

On Halloween there was more snow than any of the forecasts had predicted. The snowfall wasn’t substantial enough to deter trick-or-treaters, but most of the kids who showed up at Stan’s door for candy wore bulky coats over their costumes. All of them had at least two parents hovering behind them, despite the widely circulating rumor that the Park County Ripper had died by his own hand. 

Despite Stan’s insider knowledge, it still felt that way to him: only a rumor, if not something more insidious. He had yet to see the suicide note allegedly left by Cartman, and he wasn’t sure he would be allowed to unless Kyle broke protocol. Kyle had been communicating with him in only terse text messages since the night before, and Stan’s confidence that he would be granted additional insight into the ongoing investigation was slim. By nine o’clock the trick-or-treaters had stopped showing up at his door, and the snow was still falling. He flipped off his porch light, bolted the door and settled down in front of the muted television, checking his phone every few minutes. He wasn’t sure who he was waiting to hear from -- not Kyle, not yet -- but it felt as if important things were happening elsewhere, and as if he had been denied access to them. 

The night started to feel too quiet, and he wasn’t in the mood for the marathons of horror movies that were playing on TV. He flipped past the news, avoiding more reports about Cartman’s suicide and its apparent connection to the Park County murders. Stan couldn’t buy that Cartman had been behind the whole thing, coldly planning his attacks and collecting tongues between drunken binges at Skeeter’s, but he also couldn’t deny that what had happened in Cartman’s house was intimately connected to the horror that had gripped the town since Ruby Tucker was killed. Somebody had written a suicide note and signed Cartman’s name, wanting everyone who read it to believe that Cartman was the Ripper. It was possible that Cartman himself had done this, as a kind of final fuck you to the town where he had caused so much grief during his life, but Stan still couldn’t get past the idea that Cartman would kill himself for any reason. He needed to talk to Kyle, to sit down with him and try to make sense of the finer points of what had happened, but Kyle wasn’t taking his calls. The only call he got that night was from Kenny, late, and the sound of his phone yanked him from a jittery sleep.

“What happened?” Stan asked. The whole night had felt like a precursor to bad news, but Kenny was laughing.

“Nothing happened,” Kenny said. “I was just calling to wish you a happy All Saints’ Day, and to make sure you made it through All Hallows’ Eve unscatched.” 

“Don’t be weird right now.” Stan rubbed his eyes, stood, and went to the window. It was just after midnight, and the snow had finally stopped. There was no wind, and there were no visible stars. “I’m kind of freaked out, man,” Stan said. “It feels like something is going on, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.”

“Well,” Kenny said, slowly. “Cartman blew his head off. So that’s probably where the freaked-out portion of your evening is stemming from.” 

“Don’t say it like that. Jesus, it’s just. We knew him, Kenny. We spent thousands of hours with that person. And now he’s-- You’ve heard about this confession note, right?”

“Of course. Bebe told me. She’s here, actually. Sleeping.” 

“Oh. Well, good.” 

“Yeah, it is good. This Cartman thing, less good, but maybe not? If it means the murders are over and done with, anyway.” 

“Do you actually believe it?”

“Believe what?”

“Cartman’s suicide note! You think he was the one doing this, the whole time?” 

“Well,” Kenny said, “If it wasn’t him, this whole thing’s even more fucked up than we thought.” 

“Exactly. Bebe said she had a bad feeling at the scene, when they found Cartman’s body and this note. I’m skeptical.” 

“What does Kyle think?” Kenny asked. 

Stan was still at the window, scanning the fresh snow. He was searching the yard for something; he didn't know what it was or if it was out there at all, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to keep his eyes peeled for an approaching danger. He didn’t want to admit to Kenny that he wasn’t sure what Kyle thought. During their brief conversation about what had happened, Kyle had sounded tired enough to decide this gruesome turn of events signified the end of all his business in South Park.

“Oh, Jesus,” Kenny said. “What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing-- Huh?”

“I asked you about Kyle and you got silent. Did you guys fight?”

“No.” It felt like a lie, though nothing resembling an actual ‘fight’ had happened. “He’s just overwhelmed,” Stan said. “You know, this is emotional for him. He hated Cartman, and-- Cartman really made Kyle's life hell when we were kids. More than you know, probably.” 

“Me and Bebe were talking about that,” Kenny said. “It must have been fucked up to see the body. Especially for Kyle, since he'd probably envisioned Cartman’s grisly death once or twice, understandably.” 

“Once or twice?” Stan scoffed. “I’ve envisioned it more than that.” 

“Really? I mean, he was an asshole, but if it wasn’t for this whole murder confession thing I would have felt pretty bad for him, in a way.” 

“Yeah, well you don’t know everything about what he did.” 

“That’s ominous. Why aren’t you with Kyle? I bet he could use a friend right now. And a hug. And whatever else you guys do to each other in that motel room.” 

“He's tired. From work.” 

“So? Go spoon him while he rests. Look, I won’t pretend to be an expert on relationships all of a sudden, but Bebe called me after she left the scene at Cartman's house, and she was pretty shaken up. I raced to her side. It was what we both needed, screw all the complications. When something this big and crazy happens, it helps to have your loved one there. And Bebe told me that Kyle said so out loud. He loves you! What are you waiting for, man? Go to him.”

“He might not be alone.” Stan thought of Mac; it was late, but maybe Mac was providing the kind of level-headed, sexless company that Kyle really needed right now. “I mean. He's probably asleep.” 

“Probably not, after seeing his childhood enemy's brains splattered all over the wall of his bedroom.” 

Cartman's bedroom. Stan hadn't thought of that; Cartman still lived with Liane in the same house where he'd grown up. Kyle would have had to go into that room where he was tormented as a kid, where he was Cartman's slave, and seeing Cartman's bloody, lifeless body on the scene was not the kind of closure he had needed. 

“You're right,” Stan said. “I don't know what I'm waiting for. He doesn't want to have to ask me for help. He never did. He's-- he needs me right now.” 

“Damn straight, so get moving.” 

The walk to Stan's car seemed perilous, with everything in town so recently rattled but presently quiet, as if the landscape itself was restless and lying in wait. Stan got behind the wheel, wondering if Bebe had asked Kenny to call and prod him toward Kyle. It actually seemed more like Kenny’s style than hers, but she had told Kenny about Kyle's love confession. Stan appreciated that, and liked the idea that they were together. It seemed safer that way.

His heartbeat felt narrow on the drive toward Kyle's motel, edged into a nervous corner, and he drove with both hands on the wheel. He’d taken his cruiser, not the truck. It had seemed prudent, and he realized as he approached the highway that he felt like he was headed toward a crime scene. Kenny had mentioned All Saint's Day, but to Stan it didn't feel as if Halloween was really over, or that the dead that were allowed to roam the earth for one night had been called back to the other side of the veil yet. He felt them everywhere: just out of sight, watching his car from the thick darkness beneath the pines that lined the road. He imagined Ruby Tucker out there, and David Harrison, Marc Nelson. Cartman now, too. He thought of his father, another of South Park's ghosts, and drove faster. 

Stan didn’t intend to pound on Kyle’s motel room door as if he’d come on police business, but he was tense, his movements were jerky, and he knocked hard three times. He could hear a television and couldn’t tell if it was coming from Kyle’s room. There was no light from around the edges of the curtain that covered his room’s front window, and only when Kyle opened the door looking confused did Stan realize how worried he’d been that something bad had happened to him while they were apart. 

“Dude,” Stan said, and he stepped into the doorway to hug Kyle. He stiffened a little before wrapping his arms around Stan’s back.

“What are you doing?” Kyle asked. His voice was hoarse, probably just from sleep. “Did something happen?”

“No, just. I couldn’t sleep, and I thought maybe you’d be up, too, and-- Did I wake you?”

Kyle shook his head. He pulled free from Stan’s grip and drew him into the room. His television was on, playing commercials with the volume turned down very low. There were some fragrant Chinese food takeout boxes spread out on the table across from the bed. 

“City Wok?” Stan said, examining one of them by the light from the TV. It wasn't like Kyle to leave food sitting out; he usually cleaned up directly after eating.

“Nothing else was open.” Kyle bolted the door and lingered there, watching Stan from a distance. “You could have called,” he said. “To tell me you were coming.” 

“You haven’t been answering my calls.”

“Don’t take it personally. I’ve been slammed with work. Crazed. My boss is in town now, and his boss is on his way. We’re wrapping up the case, media is everywhere, sensitive information has been leaked--”

“Wrapping up the case?” Stan shrugged off his coat and hung it on the table’s single chair. “So that’s it? You’re taking Cartman’s confession seriously?”

Kyle scoffed. Stan wanted to reframe the question, or maybe just retract it, but it was too late. 

“What else am I supposed to do with a signed confession in the form of a suicide note?” Kyle asked. “Not take it seriously?”

“That's not what I meant.” Stan decided to drop the subject; they could talk about it later. “Look, I know you're stressed out. To put it mildly. And I haven't seen you, since, you know. Cartman’s house, since you were there. I was thinking, I-- just wanted to come over here and, like. Hold you.” 

Stan felt childish, saying it like that, but Kyle's expression softened, and he crossed the room to fall into Stan's arms again. This time he went limp when Stan rocked him and kissed the top of his head. Kyle's hair felt a little greasy against Stan's cheek, and he smelled of Chinese food in a not entirely pleasant way, but Stan didn't care. He wanted Kyle like this: walls down, exhaustion on full display. 

“What if I gave you a bath?” Stan asked, stroking his fingertips over the back of Kyle's neck. “Would that be weird?”

“Yes,” Kyle said. “And the tub here is terrible. Thank you for the offer, but could you just get in bed with me? That's all I have the energy for right now.” 

Stan gathered the Chinese food cartons, tied them up in a plastic garbage bag and left them out in the hallway. He bolted the door and turned to see Kyle undressing, pulling off his socks. It hit him that Kyle would have to go back to Denver now, if the case was really closed. Possibly that was real reason why Stan couldn't accept that the whole thing was really over. 

“I haven't really slept since the night I spent at your place,” Kyle said when Stan was snuggled up with him under the blankets, his cock hard against Kyle's thigh. Kyle was a little stiff, too, but didn't seem to be in a hurry to do anything sexual. His cheek was resting against Stan's bare chest, and he was touching Stan's chest hair like he was mapping it, carefully running his finger along each individual whorl. 

“I've missed you,” Stan said, and Kyle laughed a little.

“It hasn't even been forty-eight hours,” he said, mumbling this against Stan's skin. 

“Feels like it's been longer than that.” 

“I know. Well. A lot has happened.” 

“It must have been horrible.” Stan ran his fingers through Kyle's hair. In the morning they would have a shower together, he decided. “Seeing that, I mean,” he said when Kyle looked up at him. “And being back in that house.” 

“It was surreal,” Kyle said. “I read the note twenty, thirty times. It's hard to make sense of any of it. There was a shitload of booze in his system when he died.” 

“Jesus. It just-- him, writing a suicide note? He seems more like the type who'd film some teary, self-pitying video message to the world. And the whole idea that he could plot and pull off three murders without leaving behind any evidence--”

“Maybe he had help,” Kyle said, sharply enough that Stan realized he should drop the subject again. “We haven't ruled that out, though I can't believe he wouldn't have named his accomplice in his note. Maybe he forgot to. Anyway, I'll show it to you in the morning. I've got a copy scanned onto my laptop.” 

“A copy of Cartman's suicide note?” Stan didn't like the idea that it was in the room with them, in a sense. Kyle nodded.

“I told you from the start that it was probably him.” He shifted in Stan's arms, searching his eyes. “I told Mac, too, and some things about what Cartman did to me as a kid, so that he would understand who we were dealing with.” 

“Wasn’t the FBI surveilling him, then? As a suspect?” 

Kyle's mouth quirked. “We didn't have the resources to assign a detail to a suspect based on my hunch alone,” he said. “Which reminds me, have you dissolved the safe house protocol yet?”

“No. The siblings are still in protective custody-- Like you said, Cartman's accomplice might still be out there.” 

“Unless he killed his accomplice, too.” There was something bitter in Kyle’s voice that put Stan on edge. They had both lost their erections. 

“Are you going to take a vacation when this case wraps up?” Stan asked. “To unwind a little, after all this?”

“Maybe.” Kyle rolled over, scooting back to fit himself against the curve of Stan's body. The press of his rump renewed Stan's arousal, but he settled in for sleep when Kyle rested his head on the pillow. “There's still a lot to do,” Kyle said. Stan could hear how tired he was, and there was a rattle in his words, as if he was developing a sore throat. 

“Worry about what needs to be done later,” Stan said. He gave Kyle a squeeze from behind and kissed his neck. “Just get some sleep. I'm here. You're safe.” 

“I know I'm safe,” Kyle said, stiffening. “Cartman is dead.” 

“Well. That's true.” 

Kyle said nothing in response, and Stan wasn't sure how to continue, or if he should. He was tired, too, and the heat of Kyle's bare skin under the blankets was a needed sleep aide. He shut his eyes, trying to take his own advice. They could worry about the fallout of the investigation in the morning.

Like he had when they were kids, Stan felt as if he shared Kyle's dreams that night, as if the bed had transported them together to the rolling hills of a single subconscious state. This time they ventured not through fields that resembled the ones Link traversed in his video game adventures but through the darkened, snow-covered streets of South Park. They were teenagers in the dream, around the age they had been when Kyle drifted away and then on into his post-South Park life. Thinking this, and aware that he was dreaming, Stan reached over and clasped Kyle's glove-clad hand, wanting to keep him from slipping away again. Kyle's fingers curled around Stan's, but he kept his gaze pointed straight ahead as they walked, and Stan could see by the set of Kyle's jaw that he was angry about something and trying to hold it in. 

“I don't need your protection,” Kyle said. 

“Yes, you do,” Stan said, and he stopped walking, desperate to convince Kyle this was true. Kyle resisted when Stan tried to meet his eyes, turning away. “Kyle,” Stan said, grabbing his shoulders. “Look at me.” 

When Kyle finally faced him, Stan's breath caught in his chest: he had two black eyes, and his lashes were wet with angry tears. 

“You're too late,” Kyle said. 

Stan woke from this and other bad dreams to the comfort of having the real Kyle with him, but each time this security was quickly replaced by the thought that he wouldn't have this much longer. Kyle's motel bill would be finalized and paid by the FBI, and the Denver Bureau would be eager to have him back, in the absence of more murders by a potential accomplice. Stan tried to tell himself it was a small thing, not even very long of a distance and nothing compared to the strength of their renewed connection, but he still felt like he had in his dream, like Kyle would fade from his life as soon as he loosened his grip.

Kyle's sleep seemed as uneasy as Stan's. He tossed and turned throughout the night, huddling against Stan's chest and then rolling over to be wrapped up from behind again. Stan saw dawn peeking in around the edges of the curtains when he rolled onto his back, his arm still snug around Kyle's shoulders. He wanted to hide from the oncoming day, though preferably not in this room. The sickly sweet aroma of the Chinese food lingered, and he felt as if some kind of intangible threat was lurking in the room with them, too. Cartman's ghost, maybe. Stan hated the thought, but it felt so cruelly true that he checked the four corners of the room several times as the glow around the curtains grew brighter.

Stan wanted to linger in bed and have sex. It seemed like something they both needed, a kind of renewal of unspoken vows. Kyle got up around eight and slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Stan heard him pee, flush, and then the whine of the shower turning on. He was hurt for not having been invited to join Kyle in there, but maybe Kyle thought he was still asleep. Stan hadn't said anything when Kyle left the bed; he'd barely stirred. He didn't understand how he kept doing that. He had come over in the middle of the night, he'd declared his love, had made other blunt gestures, but he still kept silent when Kyle moved out of reach.

Kyle emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist and a cagey expression for Stan, as if he knew he’d done something insensitive by showering alone. Stan wanted to tell him it was okay, but it seemed wrong to try to vocalize the kind of slights and apologies that still passed between them without words. He sat in bed and watched Kyle begin to dress, wanting to ask him what the hurry was. 

“I guess I should read that note,” Stan said, though he was dreading it. “Cartman’s,” he said when Kyle turned from the narrow closet where his dry-cleaned shirts and pants hung in plastic. 

“Oh.” Kyle shook his head, not in disagreement but as if to clear a mental fog. “Right, um. I’ll pull it up on my computer. It’s pretty disturbing.” 

“I can handle it,” Stan said. Kyle was still standing by the closet, fastening his belt. Stan felt like he was watching Kyle board a train, and he was actually very apprehensive about reading Cartman’s alleged suicide note. He wasn't afraid, exactly, but the mere existence of such a thing made him nervous, as if it was a fanged creature that might spring at his face without warning. Kyle walked to the table in his undershirt and pants, and he opened the laptop on his way to the bed. Stan looped his arm around Kyle’s waist when he sat beside him. He didn’t want Kyle standing across the room while he read this thing. 

“Let’s see, um.” Kyle was flicking through images in a file titled SP EVIDENCE - PHOTOS. Stan looked away, not wanting to revisit the sight of the corpses he’d seen in person. Something about Kyle’s clicking through them made him think of the ‘numbers’ he’d seen on their chests.

“Does it say anything about the countdown?” He peeked at the laptop and saw a scan of a handwritten note. His heart lurched; something about the note was already as jarring as the photos of the victims’ bodies. 

“He does mention a countdown,” Kyle said, nodding. “You were right. That was a good catch, though it wasn't really a linchpin or even a clue. Go ahead, read it.” 

Stan cleared his throat reflexively, though there was no way he was going to read this thing out loud. A memory of imitating Cartman’s voice as a kid, to make Kyle laugh, threw him even further off balance. He felt a looming sense of grief as he made himself focus on Cartman’s last words, not for Cartman but for a time when he had seen Cartman as only a dumb kid, someone who was the deserved butt of jokes and nothing more.

The letter was addressed _To Whom It May Concern_. Stan wasn’t sure if this was in character for Cartman or not; he might have at least addressed his grieving mother. The handwriting was increasingly sloppy from the top of the page to the bottom, and almost illegible in places. 

_If you’re reading this letter, I’m dead._

_Many years ago, it all went wrong. As a child I yearned for acceptance, inclusion, even glory. What innocent child doesn't crave these things? Instead I was faced with rejection, revulsion, and cruelty from my peers and guardians. What could I do but retaliate just as cruelly? At nine years old I unwittingly engineered the murder of my estranged father, and I drove my half-brother insane in the process. Some would call the plan I concocted and flawlessly enacted, especially at such a young age, sheer brilliance. Certainly I never faced any consequences for my actions. The raw power of having done this and never being asked to answer for it made me want to kill again, but less indirectly this time. For years I plotted my next move, a series of murders that would shake South Park to the CORE!! I chose to murder the younger siblings of my peers, and, as the most delicious twist, I would frame my half-brother Scott Tenorman for the crimes. He was already certifiably insane, and all I had to do was wait for his release from a state mental hospital. “Scott” would murder younger siblings in a ritualistic “countdown” to Victim Zero: me. I’ve obsessed over this plan since adolescence, even going so far as to pretend to be a useless drunk in order to strengthen my alibi. While the world saw an Eric T. Cartman who couldn’t open his mailbox without tripping over his own dick, I was secretly masterminding the perfect crime. And it seemed as if it was all finally coming true: Scott was released according to schedule, my first two crime scenes were staged beautifully and without a trace of evidence left behind, and, as an added bonus, my dream of having Kyle Broflovski investigate the crimes came true, too. Kyle would certainly come to the conclusion I had so helpfully drawn for him: that Scott Tenorman had killed these younger siblings and had been foiled at the last minute before claiming me, his final and ultimate victim. I would leave instructions to have my full confession stored in a safe deposit box, only to be opened and shared with the public upon my death, thereby discrediting Kyle as a detective and proving his entire life was a lie, and that I had ultimately outsmarted him FOR ALL TIME._

Stan gaped at Kyle. “You didn’t tell me he mentioned you in this. Jesus!”

Kyle shrugged. “Well,” he said. “I told you. This is him. This is who he really was.” 

Stan returned his eyes to the letter, his stomach twisting at the thought of Cartman building a life around hurting Kyle. Something about it still felt wrong, and he read on not knowing what the hell to expect next.

_It was the most brilliant plan concocted by anyone in modern history. Better even than my previous victory over my half-brother. But it all came crashing down when Scott Tenorman killed himself._

“When did that happen?” Stan asked. 

“Last week,” Kyle said. “Back in March, Tenorman was released from the psychiatric hospital where he’d lived for the last six years. He’d been in and out of them since he was thirteen, had been suicidal since he lost his parents, but I guess he had his doctors fooled, or maybe the reality of living outside of the hospital was much harder than he expected. They found his car in the Blue Mesa Reservoir. I had no idea, until I read this letter. It wasn’t widely reported.” 

“Jesus.” Stan turned back to the letter.

_Scott spoiled everything. He ruined the plan. I was sent into a spiral of depression that was darker and deeper than anything I had ever imagined. I killed Marc Nelson in a sloppy, desperate panic. He was an older brother: he was Scott, in my mind, but there was no satisfaction in his murder-by-proxy. Not like the ones before, which felt like masterpieces in a collection of art. It was all about the PLAN. The PLAN was perfect, and Scott had played the ultimate sick joke on me after all: he scrapped my entire legacy. My final act of revenge upon Scott and our father, whose absence had ruined my life. My supervillain-level infamy. The pleasure of imagining Kyle (and his descendants, should he gay-adopt children with some fellow queer) having his soul utterly crushed when he learned how I had outsmarted him all those years ago. All gone. _

_I’ve devoted so much time, energy, and thought to my dream. Now it’s all gone. Down the drain. I’m unable to cope. I’ve lost the will to live. I’m sure many of you will be surprised to learn that I died by my own hand. Well, I had feelings, too, you fucking assholes. I had dreams. I had goals. You all never seemed to realize that. Now it’s too late. I’ve drunk half a bottle of whiskey, just like the alkie pig you all think I am. I stole the rifle that was used to kill my father. Now it shall kill me, too. It was all for nothing, but it’s not my fault. I was a man of too great a vision to be successful in such a paltry arena as this one you call EARTH. Soon, I join my brother Scott in Hell. Perhaps we shall reign together there. Scott, in the end, I forgive you. I forgive you for ruining my life. Offer me your cold hand, My Brother in Death. Let us move on from this mortal coil as equals._

“What the fuck?” Stan shut the laptop and pushed it away, not wanting any part of it to continue touching him while it contained Cartman’s note. He started at Kyle, his mouth hanging open. Kyle’s face was unreadable, almost eerily calm. “What the fuck?” Stan said, again. He stared at the closed laptop as if it might answer, imagining Cartman’s snorting laughter bursting from it if he opened the lid. 

“He was sick,” Kyle said. “Out of his mind, deranged, obsessed. It fits his profile. I’m not just saying that as someone who knew him all his life, or as someone who personally suffered him. I’m saying that as a professional, as an investigator. Do you understand now? Can you fucking accept that this is over?”

The question stung, though Stan was pretty sure Kyle hadn't included their rekindled closeness in the elements of this situation that were now over. He took his arm from around Kyle’s waist. His hand was tense and cramped; he must have been squeezing Kyle’s side too hard while he read that note, but Kyle hadn’t mentioned it. 

“Something's still weird,” Stan said, squinting at the laptop. “Maybe I'm just too tired to think straight.” 

“I didn't sleep well either.” Kyle stood from the bed. Stan felt like this was a further condemnation of their foolhardy plans to carry on together after the murders were solved: _Can you fucking accept that this is over?_ He kept hearing it, a biting recrimination that felt as surreal as Cartman's confession, and just as somehow undeniable. 

“What now?” Stan asked. Kyle was staring at him from the closet, sliding on a pressed white shirt. 

“Now the citizens of South Park can rest easy,” Kyle said. “No more sleepless nights.”

“On the phone you said something about guilt – like Cartman was guilty for what he'd done to Scott? I didn't get that from the letter.”

“I told you on the phone, I shouldn't have used the word 'guilt' or 'guilty' or whatever I said when I was half asleep. It's more like a fixation, though maybe in some deeply subconscious way Cartman felt guilt when he heard that his brother had killed himself. He certainly seemed to take it as a cosmic signal that he should do the same, so they could meet in Hell and dethrone Satan.” Kyle rolled his eyes and turned to the closet to select a tie. Stan got out of bed. He was surprised by how cold the room was; under the blankets he'd felt fine. 

“He didn't even mention his mother,” Stan said, standing naked and cold, not ready to dress. 

“Huh?” 

“Cartman, in that letter. He didn't say anything about Liane.” 

“Well, he never had a thought to spare for the poor woman in life, why would he be thinking of her while he was lamenting his lost legacy as the perfect serial killer? Stan, that was all very characteristic. The delusions of grandeur, the self pity, the inability to hear how he would sound to normal people. Even the dig about me and my theoretical 'gay-adopted' children.” 

There was a sharp knock on the door before Stan could respond. He scrambled to grab his boxers and jeans, and he'd only gotten halfway to the bathroom before Kyle unfastened the chain lock. 

“Dude!” Stan said, whirling around. 

“It's just Mac,” Kyle said, but he waited until Stan was safely closed in the bathroom before opening the door for his partner.

Stan dressed in the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He could hear Kyle and Mac talking, and he didn’t appreciate the low volume of their voices. Clearly they wanted to keep whatever they were saying from him, as if he was some kind of intruder on this scene. He'd been there first, in every respect.

Mac nodded in greeting when Stan walked out into the motel room, still feeling rumpled. The Chinese food smell had mostly dissipated, but Stan associated the damp motel scent of the room with sex, generally, and it seemed weird that Mac was in this little den where Kyle had taught Stan how to properly sixty-nine. 

“Kyle says you read the note,” Mac said. 

“I guess that’s against protocol,” Stan said. He couldn’t tell if Mac was annoyed; he was a hard guy to read.

“Just be discreet about it, please,” Kyle said. He’d put on a blazer and straightened his hair. “It will most likely be released to the public eventually, when the investigation is closed.” He scoffed. “Maybe I’ll write a memoir.” 

“It will be complicated for Kyle,” Mac said. “Since he was named in the note.”

“Complicated how?”

“People will want to interview me,” Kyle said. “News programs, morning shows, things like that.” 

“Are you happy about that?” Stan asked. He could imagine Kyle sort of reveling in it; he liked to be treated like an authority. Kyle’s expression hardened. 

“What do you think?” he asked. “You think I want to go on TV and talk about Cartman’s lifelong obsession with debasing me? I’m already getting heat from my boss because he thinks I hid a personal connection to the case that should have prevented me from being assigned to investigate it.”

“Don’t worry about that bullshit,” Mac said. “Wilson was just taken off guard by seeing your name in that note. You had no way of knowing who the perp was or that he had factored you into his-- revenge fantasy, or whatever the hell it was.” Mac turned back to Stan. “Me and Kyle have talked a lot about the note,” he said. “You grew up with Cartman. Do you have any insights, after reading it?” 

“I need some time to absorb it and think,” Stan said. He wasn’t sure if he was glad or sorry about how defensive that sounded out loud. “It’s pretty fucking crazy.” 

“We just woke up,” Kyle said. Stan appreciated the ‘we,’ though he knew it wouldn’t be news to Mac that they had shared a bed. “Stan read the note this morning, not last night. It’s a lot to deal with before your first cup of coffee.” 

“Your thing about the chest marks being a countdown was right on,” Mac said. “That’s impressive. Just want you to know that we’d value your input if you have any at this stage.” 

“Thanks,” Stan said, surprised. “But what’s left for you guys to decode at this point? You think there’s more going on here than what’s in the note?” Stan hoped that at least Mac believed there could be more to the story, though he didn’t have concrete evidence or even any flimsy theories as to why he felt that way. Mac shrugged. 

“Seems cut and dry,” he said. “Or about as cut and dry as possible, given the backstory with Cartman and his half-brother. Guy was a violent sociopath who had this lingering obsession over the events he set in motion as a kid, had delusions of grandeur, had a drinking problem that he wanted to style as part of his ‘plan.’ He finds out his half-brother offed himself, gets wasted and decides to follow him straight to hell.”

“That kind of impulsive decision making doesn’t fit with the perpetrator you guys had profiled, though,” Stan said. “I mean, does it? The killer who cut out the tongues-- he also gets drunk one night and decides to put a gun in his mouth? I don’t know, that’s what doesn’t fit to me.” Something had clicked into place as Stan spoke, and he realized what had been bothering him. “It’s like a story Cartman would want us to believe,” he said. “That he had this big plan, that we all underestimated him, and that everything getting ruined was just some sad circumstance that wasn’t his fault. But it’s not the kind of thing that was ever actually true about him. It’s like, if we believe what’s in the note, that he was responsible for the three murders and the only thing that foiled his grand scheme was Tenorman’s death, we’re buying into his delusions of grandeur.”

“So you think he’s taking credit for someone else’s crime?” Mac said. “That it was just a bit of flair to add to his suicide?”

“That doesn’t seem like Cartman either,” Stan said. “He wouldn’t want to be blamed for something he didn’t do. I don’t know, just. Something’s still off.” 

Stan noticed that Kyle had gone quiet. He had his hands on his hips and was gazing into the middle distance, his eyes unfocused. It seemed suddenly unacceptable that there was so much space between him and Kyle, even with Mac present, and Stan tried to seem casual about walking closer. 

“How about some breakfast?” Stan asked. He touched Kyle’s shoulder when he seemed to be not paying attention, absorbed in thought.

“We have a breakfast meeting,” Kyle said. He looked up into Stan’s eyes, then quickly turned to Mac. “Jesus,” he said. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight thirty,” Mac said. “That’s why I came knocking. Grab your computer and let’s head out.” 

“I should get home anyway,” Stan said. He felt rejected, but he knew it was ridiculous and was determined not to dwell on it. “My shift starts at noon. Gotta, um. Shower and stuff.”

Kyle gathered his things, and Stan was somewhat touched when he shrugged on the coat that he’d borrowed from Stan, though it looked ridiculous over Kyle’s crisply pressed suit. Kyle’s shoes were all wrong for crunching over the snow in the parking lot, and Stan wanted to loan him some boots, too, though they hadn’t shared a shoe size since they were six years old.

“I’ll give you a call if anything comes to mind,” Stan called as Kyle made his way toward the rental car with Mac. Apparently Stan wasn’t going to get even the briefest of goodbye hugs. “I mean about the note,” Stan said when Kyle turned back. “Uh, you know. Ideas.”

“Right,” Kyle said. He seemed out of it. Stan resented the idea that he might open up to Mac about last night, or whatever, on the drive to their breakfast meeting. Stan had somehow never been the one who Kyle really confided in. 

“How about dinner?” Stan asked. “It would have to be late, I'm not off duty until eleven--”

“I have no idea what my schedule is going to be like,” Kyle said. “But I’ll let you know. Take care.”

Stan was bothered by that as he climbed into his car. Take care? It felt like a brush off with potentially broad implications, and even Mac had seemed more interested in Stan’s input about the case than Kyle had. 

Nothing felt right for the rest of the day, and attempting to recount the contents of Cartman’s suicide note for Bebe when they were alone together on patrol made Stan feel insane, as if he was making parts of it up. 

“I’m not really capturing the real mood of it,” Stan said when Bebe stared at him, her brow pinched. “You have to imagine it in Cartman’s voice, I guess.” 

“That’s the thing,” Bebe said. “He was a bad person, but he also had this kind of clownish ridiculousness about him. It’s hard to take the idea of him killing himself seriously, never mind knocking off three other people according to some kind of careful plan.” 

“Exactly,” Stan said. “But the note-- It really did sound like him. Ridiculous, but in this demented, sinister way. I could hear his voice when I read it.” 

“Speaking of Cartman’s writing style,” Bebe said. “Kenny finally heard from Butters.” 

“Oh? What’s that got to do with Cartman’s writing style?”

“He was sending Butters these weird letters. I don’t know what was in them, but Butters seemed disturbed by them. He’s very distraught about Cartman killing himself, too. I don’t think he knows about the confession to the murders. Has that little detail made it into even the local news yet?”

“I don’t know,” Stan said. “It’s not like anyone in the press has been allowed to see the note, but word is getting around somehow, at least in South Park.” 

“Well, Butters is supposed to get here tonight. Late, after our shift. Me and Kenny are taking him out to dinner. Please come. It’s going to be so weird.” 

“Maybe I could convince Kyle to come,” Stan said. “If Butters has information, if he knows about something relevant to the case from those letters. That might be the only way to get Kyle to see me tonight.” 

“Oh?” Bebe frowned again. “You guys fought?” 

“You sound like Kenny. There’s a lot of territory between feeling insecure about a relationship and ‘fighting,’ okay? We didn’t fight. It’s just. Something’s making me nervous. Like Kyle is about to change his mind about all of this, and I’m not sure if it’s my fault or not.” 

“How would it be your fault? Kyle’s probably just shaken up by what happened with Cartman. He’s not going to be the most emotionally available, level-headed romantic partner after reading his name in someone’s murder confession suicide note, Stan. I still can’t believe that was actually in there. That Cartman was still obsessed with him.” 

“I hate it.” Stan wanted to find Cartman and rough him up for disturbing Kyle further, but Cartman was in a body bag somewhere, his remains in FBI custody. “I know you're right,” Stan said. “Kyle is disturbed by this, like all of us. More so, even. I just want to be there for him, but he gets distant. He doesn’t trust me to take care of him.” 

“Maybe he doesn’t want someone thinking they need to take care of him,” Bebe said. “He’s headstrong. He likes to pretend he’s always fine.” 

“Mac takes care of him,” Stan said. Mac was driving Kyle around, passing him a bagel during the breakfast meeting, having concerns about how the press would want to interview him if they got hold of the note. Bebe was giving Stan a disbelieving stare when he glanced over at her. “What?”

“You’re still jealous of that guy?” 

“A little. What! They’re really close.” 

“Is Kyle jealous of me?” Bebe asked, smiling. 

“Maybe. Who can tell? I feel like every time I get one step closer he takes two steps back.” 

“Well, Stan. You really hurt him, I think. In high school, when Lola got pregnant. He must have loved you so much, already.”

“So I’m being punished for that, still? After eleven years of silence? After I told him I’m in love with him?”

“No! Just, he’s guarded after all that time apart, and now he’s dealing with this Cartman fallout. Let him have some space if he needs it. I think you’re overreacting to some kind of perceived, forthcoming Kyle flight. He’s not going to run away again.” 

“He’ll go back to Denver for work.”

“Denver is not that far!”

“It’s too far for me, Bebe. I’ll drive myself crazy thinking about how I’m not a real part of his life. I want to cook dinner for him at the end of the day, and take his car for an oil change when he's too busy to do it, all that domestic, everyday shit. I love that shit. How would you feel if Kenny moved to Denver?”

“Will you knock it off with the me and Kenny comparisons? If anything, the distance would be good for you guys, at least at first. You have that tendency to get co-dependent.” 

“It’s called enjoying each other’s company.” 

Bebe rolled her eyes. Stan didn’t feel like getting into a debate over it, especially since he knew she was right. His stomach was in knots because Kyle was in a hotel boardroom across town, talking to his work colleagues, and not curled up against Stan’s chest with Stan’s fingers stroking through his curls. The panic at not being able to be near to Kyle at a time like this was perhaps something resembling the kind of codependency they had shared as kids. Stan associated the feeling with childhood: when they were young, Kyle had always seemed to be getting taken away by outside forces, in Stan’s bad dreams and in reality, too. 

Stan checked his phone throughout his shift, but he didn’t hear anything from Kyle. He was dragging by the end of the day, but he was too curious about what Butters had to share with the class to pass up Bebe’s demand that he attend this dinner. He’d texted Kyle around five o’clock to ask if he wanted to join them, and he didn’t get a response until he climbed into his cruiser to drive to the restaurant with Bebe, both of them still in uniform. 

“Kyle’s coming,” Stan said. “He said he’ll be late. God, I hope he won’t bring Mac. Should I ask him not to bring Mac?”

“Were you ever this nuts over Lola?” Bebe asked.

“What do you think?” Stan muttered. “Lola was like a break from feeling this way. She was breezy, it was fun. Until it wasn't, same with the Kevins. I’m not obsessed with Kyle, okay? I just love him. I want him at dinner, that’s all.” 

“As long as he doesn't dare to bring his partner. Got it.” 

The restaurant was in the historic main street district, a small Italian place that was staying open late especially for them. Kenny was friends with the owner, an older man who did catering jobs at the funeral home. It was a quarter past eleven when Stan and Bebe arrived. Kenny was at the bar, talking to the owner and drinking a beer. Butters sat beside him, drinking what appeared to be a whiskey sour with extra cherries. Even from a distance, and in the romantically dimmed lighting of the restaurant, Stan could see that Butters was fretful and very tired. He had lost a lot of his hair, but he still looked young for his age in all other departments: on the short side, baby-faced and trim. He lit up a little when he turned and saw Bebe, and he stepped off his bar stool to hug her. Stan hesitated when Butters turned toward him, then gave him an awkward hug. They hadn’t been close as kids and barely spoke to each other by the time they were in high school, when Butters got really into drama club.

“You’re looking real well,” Butters said when he pulled free from Stan's tentative hug. 

“You, too,” Stan said, though it was an obvious and maybe even insulting lie. Butters was peering up at Stan with the wary expression of a battered orphan who needed rescue, looking as if he couldn't remember the last time he hadn't been on the verge of tears. It made Stan uncomfortable, and he took an instinctive step back. He wondered if Butters was staying with Linda or at Kenny's place. 

“Oh, I’m just in a fog,” Butters said. He sniffled and accepted a cocktail napkin from Kenny, using it to wipe at the corners of his eyes and then his nose. “It’s a real shock, what happened with Eric, and Kenny says I don’t even know the whole story yet.”

“Let’s get a bottle of wine,” Kenny said. He looked slightly panicked by this whole scenario. Stan couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Kenny nervous. Even at the safe house, with his siblings on the potential victim list, he'd been relaxed and jovial. Already there was a thickening tension between the four of them, and Stan was all in favor of some wine. Bebe seemed relatively calm, but Stan noticed her keeping closer to Kenny than usual. She leaned on him at the bar, and left her hand on his waist as they walked toward their table. The way she hovered in Kenny's space, as if she was at last feeling sure that she belonged there, made Stan long for Kyle.

“Kyle’s coming,” Stan said when they were seated at a round table in the center of the restaurant. The waitress was the owner’s daughter, and though it was after hours she was still dressed in the customary white collar shirt with a little black bowtie. 

“Glad to hear Kyle can make it,” Kenny said. “I guess we need his-- official clearance, or something.” 

“Clearance for what?” Stan asked. 

“Uh, the information. I told Butters that Cartman left a suicide note, but I didn’t describe the contents.” 

“It’s just so strange,” Butters said, shaking his head. “Eric, shooting himself like that? I tell you what, I still can't get my head around it. It doesn’t seem possible, Stan. You know?”

Stan wasn’t sure why this was directed to him, but he did know what Butters meant. He nodded and accepted a glass of red wine from the waitress. 

“Yeah,” he said, checking the front door for Kyle. “Really threw us all for a loop, that’s for sure. You were still in touch with Cartman?”

“Well.” Butters glanced at Kenny. “You know, me and Eric were sorta involved, for a time.”

“Involved?” Stan said. 

“We had sex sometimes,” Butters blurted, and he gulped from his glass of wine. “Heck, I was almost in love with the man for a while there. He’d come see me in college, but. Well. I never did like his drinking. He could get real mean, you know? I can’t believe he’s dead.” 

Butters picked up a cloth napkin and held it over his face, the silverware that had been wrapped into it tumbling to the ground. Stan picked it up off the floor while Kenny attempted to comfort Butters. He wasn’t sobbing, exactly, but he was breathing heavily into the napkin. 

“And it’s my fault!” Butters said when he pulled the napkin away. 

“Honey, no,” Bebe said. “Why would you think that?”

The bell on the front door clanged, and Stan turned to see Kyle entering the restaurant. He was alone, wearing an overcoat that Stan didn’t recognize. Mac was sitting in their rental car in the parking lot, behind the wheel, and he backed out onto the road once he’d seen that Kyle was safely inside. Though Stan was relieved he wouldn't be intruding on this difficult reunion, he envied Mac in the moment. He wished he had spent the day with Kyle like Mac had, and also that he was currently driving away from this spaghetti dinner from hell. Butters was already a wreck, and he didn’t even know about Cartman claiming the responsibility for three murders.

“Jesus,” Kyle said when he saw Butters gulping wine. “Did you tell him?”

“Tell me what?” Butters asked. He sniffled. “Hello, Kyle.” There was something disdainful about the way he looked Kyle over, and Stan felt the old, unasked for protectiveness welling in his chest, though he couldn’t imagine that Butters was a threat to anyone. 

“Hi,” Kyle said. He took the empty seat beside Stan's and drank from Stan’s glass of wine when he passed it over. Their eyes met over the rim of the glass, and welcome but anxious heat pooled in Stan's gut. He wanted to spend the night with Kyle, so bad that it felt like a hunger pang, his body signaling him to acquire something he would die without. Kyle gave him a tired smile and passed the glass of wine back. “So,” he said, shrugging his coat onto the back of his chair. “The gang’s all here.” 

That statement seemed to settle over the table like a gloom, and everyone's eyes went to their menus. Stan had forgotten how adorably awkward Kyle could be in the face of a delicate emotional situation. He reached for Kyle’s hand under the table, and struggled not to grin inappropriately when Kyle’s fingers closed around his. Kyle’s hand was cold; Stan wanted to rub it between his palms, to warm him up all over. Butters had taken on a grim, stoic expression that didn’t seem like a good sign. 

“Kenny told me you were back in town,” Butters said, speaking to Kyle. “That’s funny.” 

“I work for the FBI,” Kyle said. 

“Yeah, so I heard.” 

“I think we need to tell him,” Bebe said. She was holding Kenny’s hand on top of the table, as if they were participating in a seance and preparing to commune with the dead. “I know you wanted to eat first,” she said, more quietly, to Kenny. “But it's too cruel to wait.”

“What's happened now?” Butters asked, welling up again. “What's worse than Eric shooting himself?”

Kyle scoffed. Everyone turned to stare at him, and he pulled his hand out of Stan's.

“Butters, the suicide note was a confession,” Kyle said. He rested his elbows on the table and pressed his palms together. “To the murders,” he said. “The three people killed here in South Park. Cartman did it, and he killed himself when he realized that he wouldn't be able to pin the crimes on his brother. You remember Scott Tenorman, I'm sure?”

Stan touched Kyle's knee under the table to get him to stop talking. Butters was staring at Kyle, unblinking. Stan tried to meet Kenny's eyes, desperate for somebody to say something that would diffuse that inelegantly delivered news, but Kenny was biting his lip. He looked like he was bracing himself for dishes to be thrown.

“Well,” Bebe said. “Anyhow, that's what the note said. There's some debate as to whether it's true or not.”

Kyle scoffed again, and he reached for the glass of wine that the waitress had poured for him. Between the five of them, they had already emptied one bottle.

“There's no debate,” Kyle said. “Not among people who know what they're doing. Yes, it's a case with several complex facets, and with some areas still left to explore. The motive is muddy, to be sure, and we can't necessarily take the killer at his word when trying to determine why he did this. But the FBI is going forward with the theory that, in the absence of any further murders, the note is proof enough that Cartman was the killer. All the information we have is uncontested by evidence to the contrary at this point. Butters, you probably knew Cartman better than any of us. Are you really surprised?”

“Dude,” Stan said, softly. Kyle glared at him, and Stan was taken aback by the sudden fury on his face. Butters was making little noises under his breath, worrying the napkin he'd dampened with tears between his hands.

“That's not right,” Butters said. “Eric said-- In a note, he--? Those people with the missing tongues?”

“He killed them, yes,” Kyle said, with no hint of sympathy for Butters in his tone. Stan wished there was some delicate way to tell him what he had missed by arriving late, that Butters and Cartman had been friends with benefits at one point, possibly more.

“Now that's one thing I find strange,” Bebe said. “That Cartman didn't mention the tongues in the note. How did that fit into his brilliant plan?”

“He was trying to frame a known madman,” Kyle said, his voice rising with each word. “Scott Tenorman ate his own parents, according to Cartman's design. You're really not seeing how tongues fit into Cartman's attempt to make it look like his brother did this?”

“I guess that makes sense,” Bebe said, muttering. She sipped from her wine and shared a look with Kenny. “Butters,” she said. “Are you okay? We didn't mean to ambush you with this as soon as you stepped off the plane, but there are whispers about it all around town. We wanted you to hear it from us.”

“I don’t believe it,” Butters said. He was shaking his head, slowly at first and then more firmly. “Why would Eric kill those people? Craig's sister and them? How come?”

“Because he was a sadistic sociopath who thought he deserved to do whatever he wanted,” Kyle said. “Butters, he treated you terribly when we were kids. You don’t remember? Come _on_. You know what he was really like! You just said it yourself, he was a mean drunk.”

“Not all mean drunks are serial killers,” Kenny said, holding up a finger. “Just ask my dad.” 

“Well, this particular mean drunk has confessed that he was also a serial killer.” Kyle glared at Stan when he squeezed his knee under the table, trying to quiet him down at least a little. “What?” Kyle snapped. “I'm the only one here who looks at what he knows about Cartman, having grown up with him, and says 'this fits?' Really? You don't have to be a goddamn FBI profiler to get even a glimpse of his his mind worked and make the fucking connection.” 

“Let's order food,” Kenny said, and he signaled for the waitress. Under the table, Kyle pushed Stan's hand off his knee. Stan lost his appetite then, feeling like Kyle had shoved him off a cliff. He ordered spaghetti with meatballs and accepted more wine when another bottle was opened at the table.

“Did you bring the letters?” Bebe asked when the waitress had left with their dinner orders. She was talking to Butters, who was blubbering softly at intervals, his thin lips stained purple from the wine.

“Hmm?” Butters said when Kenny nudged him. 

“The letters, man,” Kenny said. “You told us Cartman had been writing to you? That what he said in his letters was pretty fucked up?”

“Not fucked up,” Butters said, and he frowned. “Just strange. It didn't sound like Eric, really. He was never too introspective, you know? But suddenly he was writing to me about all the things he'd done wrong in his life. He never was one to blame himself for things that went wrong, but in those letters he sometimes did. That shook me up a little, but I, I-- I'm ashamed to say I didn't write back. I texted sometimes, and tried to call. He would answer the phone drunk and be real mean to me most of the time, like the old days. Oh, god.” Butters put his hands over his face, his elbows on the table. “I told my therapist that Eric reminds me of my dad. Jesus, but. I guess I ought to talk about Eric in the past tense now.” 

“So you didn't bring the letters?” Kyle said. 

“They're mine,” Butters said, and he spread his fingers, peering at Kyle from between them. “They're real personal, understand?”

“Well, we're going to subpoena them,” Kyle said. Stan thought of giving him another squeeze under the table, but it was useless. Kyle didn't want direction from him. 

“Let's calm down,” Kenny said. 

“I'm perfectly calm,” Kyle said. “I'm just giving Butters fair warning. And, Butters, please be aware that if you destroy those letters between now and the service of a subpoena you'll be on the hook for evidence tampering in a federal murder investigation, and that's--”

“Kyle!” Bebe said. “Can you let Butters have a minute to absorb what we're telling him before you threaten to arrest him for something he hasn't done?” 

Stan could see that Kyle wanted to storm out of the restaurant, and he was surprised when he didn't. Maybe he was only waiting for Mac to come back and pick him up; maybe he would have left already if he had his own car waiting in the parking lot. Outside, a lazy snowfall had begun. The fat flakes looked heavy, almost wet. 

“It's a lot to take in,” Stan said, giving Butters a sympathetic shoulder pat. “I feel like there are a couple of puzzle pieces we haven't found yet. And then I feel, half the time, like it's some prank Cartman is playing on us.” 

“It's not a prank,” Kyle said, as if that was a serious suggestion. “I saw his body. He's as dead as they come.” 

“Kyle!” Bebe said when Butters put his napkin over his face again, whining into it. Kyle just shrugged and drank from his wine. 

“You can't force me to mourn for a monster,” he said. “And frankly I'm a little sickened that you all seem determined to do so.” 

“I'm not mourning him,” Stan said. He heard himself sounding desperate, and wasn't surprised when Kyle wouldn't meet his gaze.

The food arrived, and it was consumed mostly in awkward silence, the restaurant's overhead speakers playing mellow jazz at a low volume. Kenny attempted conversation, talking about how his siblings were relieved to be released from the safe house, and how he planned to continue keeping an eye on Karen, just in case. Bebe and Stan talked about work, how the Chief would be glad to see the whole Park County Ripper-related circus leave town once the news networks were finished obsessing over the story. Kyle and Butters grunted in response to direct questions and otherwise didn't say anything. Kyle had ordered pasta in clam sauce, and Stan took a sad, small pleasure in watching him extract the meat from each clam with a fork and bring it neatly to his mouth. He thought about how bad Kyle's jizz would taste after such a meal, and wanted it on his tongue anyway. 

It was a little after midnight when they all buttoned up their coats and headed for the exit, Kenny thanking the owner and waitress profusely on their way out. He had insisted on paying for the meal, and nobody really protested. In the parking lot, the snow was still coming down, an inch or so accumulated on Stan's cruiser and Kenny's old Buick. Stan hugged him and Bebe goodnight, and made a sort of awkward wave in Butters' direction. Butters had already headed for the Buick and climbed into the backseat. Kyle was lingering nearby but ignoring everyone, preoccupied with his phone. 

“You're not taking Butters to Linda's, are you?” Stan asked. Kenny shook his head.

“He'll stay with me tonight,” he said. “Kevin's back at my place with Karen, keeping an eye on her. Bebe's gonna spend the night, too. It'll be a real fun slumber party, for sure.”

“Right. Is Butters going to do something about Linda while he's in town? I didn't want to ask.”

“Probably a good call,” Kenny said. “He mentioned his mom on the drive from the airport, but we didn't talk about it much. He seemed open to the idea of putting her house on the market and trying to get her set up in a community where nurses would check on her, that sort of thing. I'll help him if I can.” 

“Butters seems a little unhinged.” Stan glanced at Kyle, certain that he was eavesdropping. 

“He just got off a long flight and found out that his ex-boyfriend was a serial killer,” Bebe said. “Give him a break.” 

Stan said goodnight and watched them drive away. He lingered at Kyle's side when Kenny's car was out of sight, not bothering to pretend that he wasn't reading Kyle's phone screen. He was texting with Mac, who had responded saying he was on his way to pick Kyle up.

“Dude,” Stan said. He placed a tentative hand on Kyle's back, and was relieved when Kyle didn't move away. “I've got my car here. Let me drive you home. To the motel, I mean.” 

“It's fine,” Kyle said. “I just need this night to be over.” 

“Well. It is, but. Me, too? I'm part of the night that needs to end?”

Kyle made a noise under his breath—half dismissive, half pained—and turned away from Stan. In the silence that followed, Stan felt like they were the only ones left in an emptied-out town, or on a stage in a theater with no audience. The lights inside the restaurant snapped off behind them, and the old-fashioned street lamps that glowed along historic main street were the only thing illuminating the snowflakes that continued to fall. 

“Kyle,” Stan said. “I know that dinner was awkward, but seriously--”

“Awkward?” Kyle turned back to Stan. He didn't look angry; he seemed sad, and Stan made himself hang back, though his instinct was to try to remedy this with a hug. “That dinner,” Kyle said, pointing to the dark windows of the restaurant, “Was just like old times, really. Another reminder that I don't belong here with the rest of you, and that I never did.” 

“What?” Stan shook his head. “No, huh? You always--” 

“Don't try to tell me what my experience here was like! There was a reason Cartman chose me as his victim, Stan. It was because I was different, and because I was terrified that my differences were all weaknesses. He sniffed that out in me because he was a born predator. It was like finding gold for him.” 

“But we all hated Cartman! I mean, he was a joke, we laughed at him--” 

“Right, but you all still tolerated him. You let him elbow his way in, never mind how recently he'd made me feel dead inside with his latest plot to humiliate me. I know it seemed like I brushed it off easily, but I was a kid. When he hurt me, the best defense I could come up with was pretending it hadn't cut very deep. I always put on a good face for you because I didn't want you to think I was a loser. I didn't want to get ditched, or feel like a burden, or a cry baby. I didn't even want to believe it myself, how small and scared and stupid this place made me feel. But as soon as I got away from here, it was like I found out who I really was, and that I had worth, that I could feel safe and confident and--”

“You never felt that here?”

“No, Jesus! I always felt like I was on trial, like everyone was just waiting for me to snap and turn into my mother, to _dare_ to think that I had the right to complain the way she did. You were supposed to be my best friend, and you never knew.” Kyle laughed unhappily and looked away, maybe searching the road for Mac's car. The street was dark, empty. “That just confirmed it,” he said. “How you guys treated me in there. Protecting Butters' feelings, because he's still one of you, right? Well, I never was, and I can't fucking tell you how ready I am go to home.” 

“Home.” Stan wanted to sink down to his knees in the snow. This was it: they were always temporary, already ending. “Home to Denver?” 

“Of course to Denver! I made a life for myself, away from here. And it's a good life. I thought, I don't know. I do want to integrate you into it somehow, you have no idea how much I wish I could fight for that, but it's like as soon as I set sight on you I'm that kid again. The lovesick, damaged outsider. When it's just me and you, I'm okay, but I'm always walking a tightrope, too. And then, when we're around the others, like tonight, I'm just watching you in your element and feeling so far away from you.” 

“In my element?” Stan moved toward Kyle, and he wasn't surprised when Kyle stepped backward, keeping his distance. He was putting the walls back up, framing his resignation. “I seemed like I was in my element in there?” Stan said. “Making awkward conversation and trying to stomach food while Butters fell apart over fucking Cartman? Is that what this is about, you think I'm-- defending Cartman, somehow?”

“You are!” Kyle said. “All of you! Oh, you just _can't_ believe he did it, not silly old Cartman, there must be some other explanation!”

“You can't admit it's hard to swallow? Shocking, and disturbing, and--”

“I'm not shocked! I told you as soon as I got here that I thought it was him. And frankly I'm not especially disturbed, either, aside from the fact that I'm lucky he never got around to killing me. Everything about this fits, from my perspective. And that's what I mean about South Park. You all-- everything about this town, and the way you all are together, it's just something that I can't access. Even you. Especially you, because I feel so close to you and then, just. Like you're this stranger.” 

Stan heard a car on the road. He knew it would be Mac's. He held Kyle's gaze, watching his breath puff out into the cold air, snow flakes melting against his curls. 

“I don't understand,” Stan said. “You said you loved me.” 

“I do love you! But I'm going home tomorrow, back to the city, to wrap up the case and write my final report. I'll keep in touch, but I can't be here, Stan. And you are this place somehow, for me.” 

“So that means what?” 

Kyle let his mouth hang open, and he shook his head when he couldn't seem to come up with the words. Mac pulled into the lot and parked. Stan wanted to fight him, to shout at him and tell him to get lost, that he was interrupting something, but it wasn't true. This was finished; he could feel it. 

“Everything okay?” Mac said, rolling down the driver's side window. “Kyle? Ready to go?”

“Yes,” Kyle said, still holding Stan's gaze. Stan felt an old, sickeningly familiar numbness descend. He wasn't going to fight. Kyle wanted to go, and Stan would let him. He couldn't even process everything Kyle had just said clearly enough to defend against it, and maybe it wasn't his place to try to do so. 

“You're leaving town tomorrow?” Stan looked to Mac to answer this, and he nodded. 

“Did you guys get anything useful from this Butters character?” he asked. 

Stan shook his head. Kyle seemed to be stuck, standing there in silence and staring at Stan as if he was the one who had frozen him in place. It was funny to hear Butters referred to that way, as a character. Stan supposed that, to people from outside South Park, everyone in town seemed like another character in the Park County Ripper story that played nightly on the evening news. He assumed that was how Kyle saw him now, like a once-beloved action figure from childhood that had seemed to transform into a real man, but only temporarily. 

“I'll call you,” Kyle said. Stan knew that was directed at him, but at the same time it seemed as if Kyle was speaking to someone else, a stranger who represented a polite obligation. He watched Kyle walk around to the passenger side and get in. He had meant to ask him where he'd gotten that nice overcoat, but as Kyle buckled himself into the front passenger seat it seemed obvious: it was too big for him, and not as stylish as something Kyle would have picked for himself. He had borrowed it from Mac, of course. 

“You still have my jacket,” Stan said. It was a pointless and idiotic hail mary, and Kyle frowned like he didn't know what Stan was talking about.

“Oh, right,” he said. “Um. I'll bring it by in the morning. On our way out of town.” 

“Actually, don't bother,” Stan said. “It's old. I don't need it.” 

Mac looked from Stan to Kyle, then back again. Stan couldn't tell if he knew something was wrong, but he suspected Mac would hear all about it from Kyle as soon as they were alone together. Maybe Kyle would cry; maybe Mac would loan him a handkerchief. 

“Well,” Mac said. “In that case, I guess this is goodbye. It was nice to meet you, Stan. Let us know if anything comes up here, related to the case.” 

“Of course.” Stan took a last look at Kyle, lifted his hand in a wave, and turned for his car. He waited to hear Kyle call out his name, throw open the car door, run to him and pound his fists against Stan's chest, saying he was just so confused, so tired, that he hadn't meant any of that about Stan feeling like a personification of South Park and all of Kyle's past miseries. All he heard was the sound of Mac putting the window up, backing out of the parking space, and driving away with Kyle beside him. 

At home that night, Stan chugged two beers in the kitchen and went to bed in his undershirt and boxers without brushing his teeth. He slept deeply, and had no dreams that he could remember when he woke late the next morning. He lingered in bed until he knew he would be late for work unless he skipped a shower, tasting now-stale marinara and red wine on his dry tongue, overlaid by cheap, sour beer. He was fifty percent hollow, fifty percent ache, and he clung to the ache, knowing how much worse it was to feel hollow from head to toe. Outside, the sun had broken through the clouds and the snow from the night before glittered on the ledge of his bedroom window. He felt like he was waiting for his mother to throw open his bedroom door and tell him he would be late for school. He’d been thrown backward, and he was afraid to get out of bed and reenter the present, though the idea of returning to the past was horrible now, too. He knew from experience that the looming weight of getting through the day would only grow heavier once he’d pushed away his blankets. 

His day at work provided no real distractions from the ache in his clawed-open chest, and the persistent sunlight seemed like laughter in his face, as if it was agreeing with Kyle: now that the murder investigation was over, Kyle’s place was no longer in South Park, and all that remained should go back to normal, sunny days for everyone but Stan. He felt obscene for wanting to cling to the fucked up interval in his life when suddenly he and Kyle just worked, and the fact that four grisly deaths had been the catalyst seemed like confirmation that he was wrong to want Kyle all over again. The idea that Kyle had been never not been miserable in South Park hurt almost as bad as his ultimate rejection. Stan's childhood had been rocky at times, but at least for eight or nine years he’d been a mostly happy, carefree kid, and a big part of that had been the security of having Kyle always at his side. He’d thought that Kyle had once felt secure in that, too. 

“Are you going to talk to me about it or what?” Bebe asked when they left for their patrol. She was driving. Stan was slumped in the passenger seat, trying to keep his eyes from glazing over while he scanned the streets that had gone gray and lifeless again.

“Talk about what?” Stan asked. Bebe was giving him an incredulous stare when he looked over at her. “No,” he said, turning away again. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Okay, well. I’m here if you change your mind.” 

Like the sunny weather, Bebe’s disposition seemed like a personal affront. He suspected her recent reunion with Kenny had just as much to do with her light-hearted demeanor as the end of the hunt for the serial killer. Her sudden ability to make things work with Kenny stung, and it made Stan not want to tell her what had happened between him and Kyle in the parking lot of the Italian restaurant. He obsessively checked his phone instead, never really expecting a message from Kyle but unable to fully quash his hope that one would come. 

After two days of increasingly miserable waiting, during which Stan told himself hourly not to cave and be the first one to reach out, he finally heard from Kyle. Somewhat bizarrely, it was by email. The subject line was ‘Hi.’ Stan read the email on his phone, standing over the stove in his kitchen while some canned chicken soup simmered in a sauce pan. When he was finished, he went to his desktop computer, opened his email account and read Kyle’s message again, hoping that larger text would make it easier to interpret. 

_I’m sorry it’s taken me a few days to get in touch; I’ve been swamped for obvious work-related reasons, and I’m trying to get back into my life’s natural rhythm here in the city._

Stan scoffed for a second time at that ‘life’s natural rhythm’ line.

_I know we left things very strangely, and I was very worked up that last night in South Park. I hadn’t eaten all day and had quite a bit of that wine, but, as they say, ‘drunk words, sober thoughts.’ A lot of that had been building up for years, so I don’t regret saying it. I talked to my therapist about it this morning (boy, was that an overdue appointment), and he suggested that I should feel at least a little proud of myself for having the courage to voice some of those old resentments and frustrations. Obviously, you aren’t directly at fault for my difficult childhood in South Park, but letting myself think I was finally ‘worthy’ of romantic attention from you brought back a lot of the old insecurities at the same time._

_So, here’s where we are, from my perspective: being home has made a huge difference in my mental health already, but I do of course miss you. I wish you could be here, that you could see what I’m like outside of South Park , and I’m sure we’ll have visits in the future, when work calms down for me and we’ve both had a little bit of time and distance to process what was, for me, (and I think for you, too), an extremely intense emotional roller coaster._

_I’m going to mention something that I think might upset you, but I’ll say it (write it) anyway, because I’m working on being more courageous, and also because I love you and want to see you happy: at one point, while I was in town, Kenny mentioned that you have some mandatory, work-related counseling sessions that you have to complete in relation to the discovery of Ruby Tucker’s body and the associated stress. Kenny seemed to think that you were going to try to delay or get around this somehow. Stan, please don’t. I think it would be really helpful for you to talk to someone, and not just about any trauma resulting from seeing the violent crime scene. I was too much of a wimp to really get into this with you in person, because I was afraid you would scoff (you’re probably scoffing now), but I cannot stress how much seeing a professional on a regular basis has helped me grow past what South Park did to me. And I think it’s done something to you, too. Some good things-- your children, obviously --but plenty of bad, too. It almost knocked me over at moments, being there with you and realizing how much unprocessed hurt we’re both holding on to. I don’t know if you’ve given much thought to your South Park-related trauma or that you've even acknowledged it at all, but something about seeing Butters at that awful dinner, and hearing him boo-hooing about Cartman because they had some kind of vague, deranged sexual dynamic when they were younger really set me off, I think in part because I saw myself in his blubbering. Not to compare you to Cartman AT ALL (obviously), but I think in that moment Butters came to represent everything I had always feared turning into. I should probably delete this part of the email, because I don’t think I’m communicating this well so far, but I’m leaving it in. We can discuss it in person sometime._

_So much of what happened over the past few weeks feels like a dream already. I will never not be in a state of giddy disbelief when I remember what it was like to fall asleep in your arms. I think about you all the time, and wonder what you’re doing, if you miss me, if you’re okay. That’s been true for eleven years._

_You don’t have to write a long email in response. Just text me to let me know how you’re doing, and please take what I said about talking to your department counselor (or perhaps someone more qualified?) seriously. You deserve all the love and care in the world, and South Park can be so hard and cold._

_Kyle_

At first, the fact that Kyle had signed off only with his name was what Stan was stuck on more than anything. It wasn’t as if Kyle hadn’t said ‘I love you’ in the text of the letter, but something about him withholding that at the end, or any other kind of gentle sign-off, felt like a deliberate statement about what Stan should expect from him in the future. It was business-like. Professional. 

Stan got out his phone and tried to come up with a text message that could possibly serve as a response to that email. He resented the fact that Kyle assumed Stan wouldn’t want to write his own long, confessional email in response, though Kyle wasn’t wrong about that. He also wasn’t wrong about Stan’s scoffing at the idea that he needed therapy. Stan would never claim that he was emotionally unblemished, but he wasn’t sure what the hell a therapist was going to do about the fact that he’d made mistakes as a teenager and still struggled with the fallout at times. He was well aware that he’d been the architect of most of his present difficulties, but he didn’t hate his life, and he wouldn’t be talked into resenting South Park by Kyle just because he thought himself superior for having moved away. 

_Got your letter_ , Stan typed. He paused at the use of ‘letter’ as opposed to ‘email,’ then decided to leave it in. He liked that it sounded kind of snide, as if Kyle’s email was aspiring to be more than it really was, and he was increasingly angry as he ran over the lowlights in his head. The part where Kyle was totally ‘not’ comparing him to Cartman when he for some reason compared himself to Butters was stuck in Stan’s mind like a popcorn kernel between his teeth, taunting him with its inaccessible but unignorable smallness. 

Stan sent that first text, then typed more: _Interesting stuff. Hit me up when this all blows over. Stay safe._

He knew this was an awful text, glib and petty and composed in anger, and he sent it anyway. There was a tiny flicker of victory as he watched it go, and then the hurt and regret flooded in and snuffed it out. He stared down at his phone, imagining Kyle receiving the text, and he waited to see if he would get an angry phone call in response. He desperately wanted an angry phone call, wanted to hear Kyle’s voice shake on the other line, wanted to lose his composure in response, to end the call apologizing for everything and begging Kyle to love him. The phone didn’t ring. Kyle didn’t even send a frowny face with stern eyebrows in response, which was what he had done when they were kids and Stan sent dumb messages that Kyle didn’t approve of. Stan wished he still had that old phone. He wanted to dig it out and read all their old, dumb messages until he fell asleep. 

The clouds and snow returned as the week slogged on, and Stan spent his evenings with canned soup and the television. He had plans to take the kids ice skating during the weekend. Wayne played hockey, and skating was one of the few family activities he still tolerated without complaint, because he could play pick-up games with the other kids his age and ignore Stan while he skated around with Evan, who no longer begged to hold his hand the whole time. He missed that, and imagined her siding with Wayne increasingly as she got older, and as she began to understand how Stan had failed them in the same intangible ways that he had apparently failed to protect and support Kyle. 

A FOR SALE sign went up in front of Linda Stotch’s house, and Stan and Bebe got numerous calls from Liane Cartman about reporters encroaching on her property. The news about Cartman’s suicide note confession and the history between the doomed half-brothers was out, and press was everywhere. Stan couldn’t get a cup of coffee at five in the morning without tripping over ten assholes who were still milking the story of the Park County Ripper. There were ‘shocking new revelations,’ daily on the national news, but Stan was familiar with all of the old, gory details, and none of these so-called revelations made any real sense of Cartman’s alleged motive, as far as Stan was concerned. He couldn't find so much as a brief print interview with Kyle, even after the full text of the suicide note was leaked, but he did come across two articles that seemed to suggest Cartman’s fascination with humiliating Kyle was homoerotic in nature. 

At the end of the week, Liane asked for a police escort to the airport. She would be flying home to Nebraska with Cartman’s remains, which the FBI had finally released. Stan was out on his regular patrol with Bebe, very glad not to have been given that particular assignment. The Chief was overseeing Liane's escort himself, and not just for appearances. There was a rumor going around the station that he’d always had a crush on Liane. He had been a total hard ass about every member of the press who was caught on her property; one was still in a holding cell after two days of paperwork-related delays. 

“Well,” Stan said, watching a plane streak across the sky at sundown, leaving a pink-hued jet stream behind. “I guess Cartman finally made it out of South Park.” 

“Don’t be gross,” Bebe said. They were leaning against Stan’s cruiser, both drinking a late afternoon coffee, the doors of the car open so they could hear any calls over the radio. They watched the plane until it disappeared into a cloud bank. “Was that even one of Cartman's goals?” Bebe asked. “To get out of South Park? He didn’t list that in the note.”

“Who fucking knows. Did I tell you about that weird night I had with him, just after the murders started? When I drove him home from Skeeter’s, the night we met up with Craig?”

“You mentioned something, but now I forget. He was weirder than usual that night?” 

“Yeah. I mean, he was drunk, but he said something about making a huge mistake. He seemed so-- sincere? Wistful? And this was before he’d killed Marc, so it wasn’t about learning Tenorman was dead.” 

Bebe shook her head and sipped from her coffee. “I still feel like there's something we missed,” she said. “Something the FBI wouldn't see. Some kind of key only a local could spot.” 

“So much for the FBI's theory that Kyle was the perfect non-yokel local for that job.” Stan could feel Bebe's eyes on him after he'd spoken. It was the first time either of them had uttered Kyle's name in a week. 

“Yeah, they were wrong,” Bebe said. “They thought he was a click above the rest of us because he'd left town years ago, but he was just as turned around by the whole thing as any of us. Maybe more so.” 

“He hated being back here.” 

“Did he? Well, I can see that. He seemed so shaken up, from that first dinner to that last one. But you-- The way he looked at you, Stan. I can't believe that he didn't get a little thrill every time you touched his hand. He always looked like he was trying so hard not to swoon.” 

“You're seeing things that weren't really there.” Stan crumpled his coffee cup in his hand, though there were still a few sips in the bottom. “It was like a mirage for him,” he said. “Like walking through an old dream. He told me so. He also told me that being with me wasn't worth trekking through all his old nightmares, too.” 

“He's still processing everything that happened,” Bebe said. “Give him time.” 

Too late, Stan thought, but he didn't feel like like talking about it anymore. He was glad when the radio crackled with a call from dispatch, and he ducked into the cruiser to respond to a 17-40. 

“This is Marsh and Stevens with a ten-four on your 17-40,” he said. “What's the location on that? We're parked near the Old Sawmill exit, out by the highway.” 

“This is up in the mountains,” the operator said. “But not too far from you two. That old genetics lab, someone saw smoke. Probably kids building a fire again.” 

“Goddammit,” Stan muttered when he'd hung up the radio. He put the car's siren on and buckled into the driver's seat, sorry now that he'd taken the call. They still got calls about kids fooling around up there on a regular basis, but Stan hadn't responded to one personally since the night he and Bebe took Kyle along to check one out. He could feel Bebe studying him as he drove, and he knew she was thinking about that night, too. 

“You'd think they'd be off this for the winter,” Bebe said. “I know teenagers are stupid, but anybody who lives here knows those mountain roads can get bad fast at night.” 

“Here's hoping the snow holds off until we're done rounding up these punks,” Stan said, though he wasn't at all confident that the kids would be caught; they hadn't picked anybody up for loitering near the old lab since spring break. 

The sun was sinking as they made their way up the mountain toward the lab. Stan didn't want to think about Kyle, how he'd been quiet in the backseat that day, how he'd talked about missing Stan's birthday and stood close to him in the dark when they were shadowed by the hulking old building. He didn't want to wonder if Kyle had been miserable then, secretly angry, wanting to flee. To Stan the memory had become oddly precious, maybe because of the illusion that he'd been protecting Kyle then, and the fact that they'd still been on the cusp of all that was to come, drawing close to each other in a cautious but unstoppable way. He groaned, and shrugged when Bebe looked over at him.

“I miss Kyle,” he said. Admitting it felt unexpectedly good, and he knew what he'd have to do as soon as his shift was over: call Kyle, apologize for the stupid texts, explain how some of the stuff in that email had hurt him. It would be a start, at least, and Stan was tired of wallowing in his misery and pretending that there was simply nothing he could do. Bebe squeezed his shoulder as he drove up the old lab's long driveway. 

“It'll work out,” she said. 

“How do you know?”

“I don't, but I want to believe it.” 

“Why? I always thought Kyle sort of got on your nerves.”

“Yeah, but you look at him the same way he looks at you. When Kyle walked into the restaurant, that night with Butters, everything about you changed. You looked so bright and hopeful and happy, just seeing him. Like a kid again.”

Stan let the subject drop and focused on navigating the bumpy, unpaved drive, avoiding Bebe's eyes. She wasn't wrong, but he was afraid it didn't go both ways, that he would never be enough to make Kyle happy, even if he retained a nostalgia-based ability to make him swoon. When they parked in front of the lab the horizon was blazing orange with the sunset, as if there was a tremendous forest fire approaching the town. Stan sniffed the air when he climbed out, but he couldn't smell any actual fire, even from a small pile of logs lit by teenage hoodlums. There was only the scent of snow and pines, and a hint of that decaying stench that the old lab gave off.

“I guess we’ll do like last time,” Bebe said when she’d climbed out of the car. “I’ll start walking around the building in one direction, you take the other, and we’ll meet somewhere in the middle.”

“I guess,” Stan said. The idea of splitting up was unsettling, though it made sense and he hadn’t been worried about Bebe’s safety last time, with Kyle at his side. 

The crunching of the snow under their boots was the only sound around for miles. Stan figured the kids who were burning stuff up here had probably cleared off already, though he hadn’t seen fresh tire tracks on the way up the road. It was possible there was another access point to the old lab that he wasn’t aware of, or that whomever had been here had a camp set up in the woods. It was also possible that the codger who lived on the other side of valley and regularly called about seeing smoke from a campfire was just losing his vision or imagining things. 

“Radio me if you see footprints,” Bebe said when she and Stan reached the massive front doors of the old lab, criss-crossed by rusted chains. Stan nodded and started walking right while she went left. Something about the sound of Bebe’s retreating footsteps made his heart beat a little faster, and the quiet in the woods seemed to loom around him like an avalanche that was waiting to be tripped. It was dark enough to require a flashlight, though there was still a persisting orange glow between the clouds that had parted out over the distant mountain peaks. Stan quickened his steps, wanting this over with. He felt the ghostly presence of Kyle alongside him, and all their missed opportunities. He'd been thinking about Kyle nonstop since he went back to Denver, and about the persisting gap between what had happened in South Park and the explanation that Stan had thought he’d have when all of this was over. It was as if something had started without finishing, and it wasn't just him and Kyle. It was the whole investigation, though even the most sensational news programs had begun to refer to the circus in South Park as something that was firmly over.

Stan was almost to the front right corner of the building when he heard a sound that seemed to come from the woods. It was distant, but close enough to make him startle, and at first he assumed it was a pine branch snapping under the weight of fallen snow. Then he heard an unmistakable shuffle: footsteps hurrying across a paved surface. There was somebody in the old lab. He turned to motion to Bebe, but she had already made it around the other side of the building, out of sight. 

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice quiet when he brought his radio to his lips. “I think somebody’s inside the lab.”

“You heard something?” she said, too loud. 

“Shh, yeah. I think that might be why we can’t ever find these guys. There could be a squatter or two living in there. When’s the last time somebody got a call and actually swept the building?”

“I don’t know, could we even get in?”

“I remember broken windows around back. I’m gonna head that way, meet me there?”

“Roger that, unless you want to call for backup?”

“Not yet,” Stan said, imagining the Chief’s sneer if this ended up being a wild animal taking shelter inside the old lab. “Let me get eyes on the back side of the building first. There would be signs of forced entry.” 

Stan moved swiftly along the building’s right wall, heading toward the deeper woods that stretched into darkness behind the lab. He tried to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible, and listened for any other hints of where the potential intruder was located. He had a deep, unsettling sense that he'd been heard, too, and that whatever was in there had gone silent in response, waiting to see what he would do. 

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when he reached the back of the building, but he was surprised to find nothing at first glance, just the woods growing darker as the sun disappeared. He pointed his flashlight at the snow, planning to wait for Bebe before he made any decisions about what to do next. Then he saw a set of fresh footsteps. They lead toward the building, right up to one of the first story windows where the boards had been torn away, glass broken. There was a hole big enough for a person to crawl through. 

“Hello?” Stan said, pointing his flashlight inside. “Police! This is private property!”

The beam of his flashlight bounced over a weather-beaten and mostly empty room, a sludge of dead leaves covering most of the floor. There were tracks in the leaf sludge, too, leading out of the room and into the pitch-dark hallway beyond. The doorway that led out of the room was free of cobwebs. Stan heard a scampering sound again, from somewhere deeper within the building, then a heavy creaking that sounded almost like a working elevator, gears turning and cables moving. 

“Police!” he said, shouting this into the darkness. “I need you to freeze where you are, this building is condemned and very dangerous!” He imagined scared kids huddling in the darkness as he climbed through the broken window, his flashlight propped over his gun. “I'm in,” he said more quietly, speaking into his radio and scanning the four corners of the room with his light. They were all empty, but he could feel a human presence not far off. “There's definitely somebody in here. I'm gonna get them out before they hurt themselves.” 

“Careful,” Bebe said, short of breath. “I'm on my way.” 

Though Stan was moving slowly, his breath seem to thin out as he crept further into the old lab, entering the dark hallway. He shined his flashlight down one end, and the beam landed against a boarded-up window. He turned in the other direction, everything in him bracing for some kind of impact, but that side of the hallway was empty, too, as far as he could see. There was an elevator shaft at the end, fifty feet away, with no doors. He could see its cables trembling, as if the elevator had just been operating. 

“What the fuck?” he said, under his breath. He walked forward, trying to keep his flashlight beam steady. When he tried the radio there was no signal, the heavy walls of the lab blocking everything but a buzz of static, but he knew Bebe couldn't be far behind. He froze in place when it occurred to him that he hadn't told her which window he'd entered through, and that she might end up in a totally different part of the building if there was an opening closer to the direction she was running from. 

This seemed like a good enough reason to turn back, and Stan was preparing to do so when he heard a sound from the elevator shaft. It seemed to be coming from below, a kind of rhythmic, mechanical clicking. 

“Hello?” he called. “Park County police! We've got the building surrounded-- you can't be here!”

There was a soft chuckle from the darkness, very close. Stan's mouth went dry, and his consciousness seemed to retract in sheer terror and then pulse back all at once, slamming into him. He spun, moving the flashlight and gun in erratic jerks, trying to find the person whose reedy breath he could now hear.

“Freeze!” Stan said. He spun in a full circle before he realized, too late, that there was a doorway behind him. A figure emerged from the dark in a blur: tall, deathly pale, and Stan saw only a flash of one wild eye before he was clubbed over the head with something heavy. 

He woke up to darkness and the sensation of being dragged. His hands were empty: no, they were clasped in someone else's hands, the person who was dragging him. Both of them were breathing heavily. Stan had only been out for a second, maybe, and when he struggled he was yanked forward, hard, until he felt the edge of something at his back. 

It was the elevator shaft: one kick from the wild-eyed man and Stan was tumbling down it, toward a source of reddish light. 

Stan's last conscious thought was of Kyle, but not because he was sure that this was his death. Unless it was only a trick of the light, the man who had kicked him had bright red hair. 

**

Stan woke up in slow, painful waves, wanting to deny the concrete thoughts that were beginning to take shape between his pounding temples. His cheek was pressed to a concrete floor, and everything hurt. His shoulder was throbbing, and he screamed when he tried to move his legs. The left one was bent wrong, broken. He tried moving his arms and found that his wrists were bound together behind his back. Someone was pacing nearby, breathing in a kind of wheezing panic that made Stan think the person here with him was another victim of the red-haired man who had pushed him down that elevator shaft. He lifted his neck, wincing and trying to keep his eyes open. The only source of light in the room was a storm lantern sitting against the far wall and the reddish glow from somewhere outside. Stan got the sense that they were underground; there was a sharp, mineral smell like a dug-out cave. The pacing man froze and turned to him, his lips curled back over what appeared to be metal teeth. His eyes were so wide and manic that he seemed to lack upper lids, and the shadows under his eyes were ghoulishly pronounced in the light from the lantern. 

“I realized upstairs that I'd have to kill you,” the man said. “I'm just trying to hypothesize about how you kill a cop, it's not part of the plan--” He dissolved into a coughing fit. “Excuse me,” he said, giving Stan a full view of his metallic teeth in a kind of grimacing smile. He was missing his left ear, and something about his voice was familiar, too. “I've been ill,” he said, walking closer. Stan curled in on himself, gritting his teeth when his leg flinched. “It's been hard, living here,” the man said, crouching down near Stan. He had loud red hair; it wasn't just the light. “I've had to put the furnace on more than once. I suppose that's what led you here? The smoke from the chimney?”

Stan stared up into the man's seemingly lid-less eyes, which had a perpetually shocked look, not as if he were surprised but as if he was presently being electrocuted, his face trembling slightly when he focused on Stan. 

“I do need to know,” the man said, pulling a long, curved knife from his belt, “Why you're here. Give me that, and I'll do it painlessly.”

“Who are you?” Stan asked, trying to keep his eyes locked on the man's gruesome face. He was almost sure that he shouldn't mention his partner, to keep Bebe out of danger, but he was afraid he might be dead sooner rather than later if he didn't. The red-haired man cocked his head and smiled more widely. 

“You don't recognize me?” he asked. “Denizen of South Park? Have I been forgotten already? Even in light of the recent news?”

Stan tried to twist his neck to get a better look, and he screamed in pain when it seemed to shoot from the base of his skull all the way down to his left ankle. He hoped Bebe had heard that, wherever she was. The face of his attacker hovered above him in the dark like an evil moon, and when Stan looked again he knew who this was. 

“Tenorman,” he said. “But. You died.” 

Tenorman laughed and sat back a little, rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels. He was close enough that he wouldn't have to stretch his reach to kill Stan with one slash of the knife he held, but he was dragging the tip of the knife across the concrete floor as if he was stalling. Stan tried to run through scenarios in his mind, to calm his fear enough to think through his options like he'd been trained to do. It was possible Tenorman knew Bebe was in the building, and that he was waiting for her to respond to Stan's scream so that he could take care of them both. 

“I actually thought I would have more problems with that stage of the plan,” Tenorman said, his voice squeaking a little. “Faking my own death-- that sort of thing should be difficult to pull off, right? But nobody cared enough about loony Scott Tenorman to figure out that he'd swapped a fish-eaten bum's corpse out for his own. There wasn't exactly a federal investigation into my death. The guy in the drowned car had no teeth, just like me.” Tenorman tapped his metal grill with the point of the knife. Most of the front teeth had been filed into points. “And I threw in an authentic Scott J. Tenorman ear, just in case. Probably an unnecessary precaution. I should have worked off the assumption that no one would give a shit-- they never did, after my parents were murdered.” 

Tenorman stood and began to pace again. There was something jerky in his movements, like an addict who had gone a long time without a fix. Stan looked at the doorway to the room they were in. There was nothing but reddish light from the next room, a kind of unfriendly glow. It was warm in the room, and Stan was sweating under his uniform, but shaky chills moved through him every few seconds, making his teeth chatter.

“You framed Cartman,” Stan said, wanting to keep Tenorman talking until he decided whether to scream for help or keep Bebe's presence a secret. “You killed him.” 

“He killed me!” Tenorman roared, and Stan's heart pounded with nervous hope. There was no way Tenorman would be so noisy if he knew that Bebe could be close. Stan prayed that she could find them in this maze of dark hallways. Tenorman squatted down and walked on the balls of his feet toward Stan, gripping the knife in his hand. His eyes were huge and unseeing, his thin lips curved over his teeth in a snarl. “He killed me,” Tenorman said again, slashing the concrete floor with each word. “And none of you cared.” 

“You were behind all of it,” Stan said. Despite his panic, the overwhelming pain from his leg was making him sluggish, and he dropped into valleys of consciousness that felt like dreams until a fresh throb of splintering pain from his leg wrenched him back to reality. He was afraid to look down, afraid to see bone jutting from skin, and afraid that he was going to die like this, in a mad man's lair. 

“I was owed this,” Tenorman said. “All those years in and out of mental hospitals – it was all for show! I've been sane all along, according to my own system. And what other system could I trust, after yours worked in his favor? I was plotting, careful. Even the third one that was meant to look sloppy-- that was perfect! I might as well tell you, since you're about to die. You're the only one who will ever know the truth. I'm just biding time here until the press clears out, until I can make a low profile trip to Mexico and never come back. Isn't it just kind of pretty, how it all played out? Can you appreciate that, having known the monster I murdered at the end of the game?”

“You wrote that note?” Stan said, grimacing. “The stuff about. Kyle Broflovski. How did you know?”

“How did I know? I devoted my life to studying my enemy, that's fucking how! Wasn't it the perfect touch? Didn't it end up convincing everyone, especially Special Agent Broflovski himself?” Tenorman laughed and moved closer to Stan, touching the blade of his knife to his own lips. “It was all worth it, too,” he said, whispering. “The years of discipline. The risk of being discovered. It was worth it to see the look on little Eric's face when he knew I had him. I didn't give him the opportunity to beg, but I did tell him what I was going to do after I'd gagged him. I read him his own suicide note. I laughed so hard I cried. The best part is that nobody cares about him either. They were ready to write him off as soon as the shot rang out, because he was a pathetic, detested slob. The only hard sell was trying to make it seem like he could carry off the kind of efficient, passionless murder scenes I crafted. But he pulled off what he did to me, even as a child, didn't he? _Didn't he_?” Tenorman screamed this in Stan's face, pressing the knife to his neck. Stan pinched his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to come up with more questions. He'd had some training in interviewing. Tenorman clearly wanted to talk.

“The tongues,” Stan said, forcing his voice out when Tenorman applied pressure to the knife, just shy of breaking his skin. “Why-- the tongues?” 

“Why do you think?” Tenorman asked, and he slashed Stan then, but only shallowly. Stan cried out, cowering. The sting of the cut was nothing compared to the pain from his leg, but he had thought it would be the death blow. Tenorman was breathing hard, the knife resting against Stan's collarbone now. “He made me eat them,” Tenorman said, hissing each word slowly and speaking directly into Stan's ear. “I wanted to cut out my own tongue _every day_!” 

“I'm sorry,” Stan said, though he knew it was the wrong tack to take. “We really were, Scott, we felt for you--”

“Who the fuck is we? You all harbored Cartman like he was your own! And he was, because every one of you is just as monstrous as he was. You stood back and let him destroy me! I was a child!” 

Tenorman was growing unhinged, getting louder. Stan thought he was hallucinating in desperation when he heard the echo of a distant shout, but Tenorman heard it, too. He sat up and stared at the doorway like a wolf that had scented prey, the blade of the knife still trembling at the base of Stan's neck. 

“Oh,” Tenorman said. He smiled and refocused his eyes on Stan, pulling another weapon from his belt. It was a gun: Stan's gun. “Your partner,” Tenorman said. He checked the chamber and grinned more widely when he saw that it was loaded. 

“Don't,” Stan said, squirming. “Please, she called for backup. You won't get away-- it's over.” 

“Maybe.” Tenorman stood and cocked the gun, letting the knife clatter to the floor. Stan could hear Bebe's voice again, still distant. She was calling his name. “But maybe not,” Tenorman said. “You're still just two backwoods cops, as far as I can see. This place has many tunnels, a whole network of hiding spots. I've been using it as my base camp for months without detection, and I know every crevasse, even in the dark. I could drag your bodies with me until I figure out how to dispose of them. I don't like ad-libbing. It's sloppy. But I'll make things up as I go if I have to.”

“Bebe!” Stan shouted, knowing he would probably die for this. “Watch out, I'm not--”

Tenorman kicked Stan in the jaw before he could get the word 'alone' out. Stan saw flashes of light behind his eyelids and felt his head lolling, his consciousness blinking out. When he forced his eyes open again, Tenorman was gagging him with something that smelled like rancid body odor. Stan moaned, trying to make his voice work. His mind was getting foggy, his thoughts slipping around like they were on the deck of a ship, sliding off into oblivion before he could pin them down. He was groggy as he saw Tenorman creeping toward the door. He could hear footsteps. Tenorman had his gun. 

“Stan?” Bebe was close now, and Stan screamed into the gag when Tenorman crouched down near the doorway, watching her. “Where are you?” she shouted. She was audibly frightened and certainly alone. Even if she had made the call for backup, it would take any cars on patrol in town at least half an hour to get this far up the mountain at night. 

Stan made a pathetic, fruitless noise of agony when Tenorman slipped out into the hall with the gun. Bebe would be ambushed; she'd wanted to call for backup when they were still outside. When Stan heard shots fired in the hallway he sobbed into the gag. It was his fault. 

There was an anguished, high-pitched scream, then another shot, another, another. Stan breathed in pants around the gag. He heard shuffling, footsteps, soft cursing. Then his name.

“Stan?” 

It was Bebe, shaken but alive. Stan screamed into the gag again, wiggling in an attempt to get closer to the doorway and ignoring the pain in his leg. Bebe's flashlight entered the room first, and then she was there, her braid half-undone and her eyes wide with horror.

“Jesus!” she said when she saw Stan. She hurried toward him, moving awkwardly, and dropped her flashlight when she reached him, still holding her gun in her other hand. “Was there more than one?” she asked, yanking the gag from Stan's mouth. “I shot-- shot someone who fired on me, I think he's dead--”

“It was Tenorman,” Stan said. His chest was still jerking with dry sobs, and waves of alternating heat and cold wracked his bones, threatening to tear away his tentative grasp on conscious thought. “He-- He seemed to be alone, ah-- Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” Bebe said. She put her gun down so she could free Stan's hands. “He shot me, though.” 

“What-- where?” 

“Here,” she said, taking one of Stan's freed hands and bringing it to her side. There was blood, hot and sticky between Stan's unsteady fingers, and a lot of it. “It's okay,” she said when he tried to sit up and failed. “I called for backup twenty minutes ago, two units are on their way. Did he shoot you? Is your leg broken?” 

“I think so. I'm not shot, I fell, he pushed me-- He's dead?” 

Bebe nodded, jerky. Her face was pale, and her hand shook badly when she cupped Stan's cheek.

“I killed him,” she said. “You said-- Tenorman, you said?”

“He faked his death. He did it all, everything. He killed Cartman, too.” 

“Fuck.” Bebe exhaled and winced. They both had their hands over her wound, pressing hard. “It's okay,” she said when she saw the look on Stan's face. “It went in and out. I think.” 

“And you're sure he's dead?” Stan's eyes kept flicking to the dark doorway, waiting to see Tenorman lurching back in with his metal grimace and lidless eyes.

“I lit him up, Stan,” Bebe said, and she turned to look at the doorway, too. “If he's not dead, he's sure as shit not going anywhere for now. After he shot me I emptied my whole fucking clip into him, I just-- Oh, god.” She curled down onto Stan, resting her head on his shoulder. “I killed someone. A murderer? Someone who shot me, so. I think I'm going to pass out.” 

Bebe was still conscious when they heard voices from the floor above a few minutes later. They both shouted themselves hoarse until there were footsteps in the hallway outside, three flashlight beams snaking into the room. Stan was in and out during the extraction process, and when they took him out on a gurney it had to be lifted over Tenorman's corpse in the narrow hallway. Stan threw up over the side of the gurney when it bumped up the stairs on the way up to the first floor, and he was shaking so hard that the paramedics on the scene insisted on giving him oxygen when he was rolled out to the old lab's front driveway, brought back almost to full consciousness by the welcome, frigid cold. There were three squad cars and an ambulance on the scene, and Stan could hear more sirens in the distance. He blacked out on the ride down the mountain in the ambulance, aided by painkillers. Bebe was beside him, on the bench that lined the interior of the ambulance, being treated by another paramedic and squeezing Stan's hand at moments. 

He was groggy for a long time at the hospital, even while answering questions. The Chief interviewed him about Tenorman's last words personally. Stan didn't have a hard time recalling them, despite the drugs flowing from his IV. He would never forget a word of it, or what it had felt like to realize that Tenorman's raving might be the last thing he ever heard. 

Bebe's bed was wheeled into his room when her gunshot wound was downgraded to stable. They could just touch each other's fingers, reaching across the space between their beds. Bebe's eyes were wet, but she was smiling. 

“Told you,” she said. “In and out. You okay?”

“Broken leg,” Stan said. “Broken ribs, and a dislocated shoulder that they yanked back into place. But yeah.” The pain meds had blanked out most of the real issues, but the cut on his neck seemed immune to this relief; it still stung, and he kept feeling it like a fresh slice. Outside, most of the new day had somehow passed, and the afternoon was darkening already. When Stan and Bebe were finally cleared for visitors, Kenny and Lola rushed into the room. 

“Are the kids okay?” Stan asked, and Lola nodded. Her face was splotchy, and she held herself back for a few seconds before leaning down to hug Stan and kiss his dirty hair. In the other bed, Kenny's voice was breaking up while he held Bebe against him. She was whispering to him, telling him it was okay. Stan gave Lola a weary smile when she brushed his hair from his forehead. 

“Wayne and Evan are out in the waiting room with my mom,” she said. “I wanted to make sure you were ready to see them, um. That they wouldn't be disturbed, but you don't look so bad.” 

“Get them in here,” Kenny said, wiping at his cheek with his palm. Stan was pretty sure he had never seen Kenny cry; it was as surreal as anything else that was happening. “Stan's presentable enough.” 

“Please,” Stan said, and Lola nodded. She left to fetch Wayne and Evan, and Stan turned to look at Bebe. She had Kenny cradled against her chest, her hand stroking through his hair. “I'm so sorry,” Stan said, feeling drunk from the meds but also unable to shut up. “I almost got us both killed.” 

“You did not,” Bebe said. “You found the Park County Ripper, the real one, and you helped me catch him. Well.” She gave Kenny a queasy look when he sat up. “Kill him, that is. Patrick was in here earlier, when you were asleep. He says there's tons of shit down in Tenorman's lair that links him to the murders. Including, um. The tongues. He kept them.” 

“I can't believe he didn't kill me,” Stan said, touching his neck. “He wanted to, I could see it. His eyes. Did you see his eyes?”

“Just for a second there.” Bebe said. She shook her head and looked at Kenny when he sat up to wipe at his face again. “None of it felt real to me until it was over,” she said. “I was worried for Stan-- I'd heard him shout when he fell, but I couldn't find him, it was so dark. When I thought I heard voices, it was so disorienting, and then Stan shouted, and then-- in that hallway, in the dark, someone shot me. I'd seen him with the flashlight, but it was so quick, oh, god. And there was this moment, after Tenorman was down-- I was afraid Stan was already dead.”

“I had a moment, too,” Stan said. “When I heard the shots-- I thought they were all him firing on you, from the dark.” 

Bebe reached for Stan, and he stretched his arm out between their beds, touching his fingertips to hers. Kenny grunted and stepped off Bebe's bed, pushing it toward Stan's until they could grasp each other's hands fully. Stan felt like some part of him was still down there in the dark, still vulnerable to waking from a desperate dream and finding himself back in that nightmare, and he knew Bebe felt the same way. It helped to feel her hand in his and know that he wasn’t alone in still mentally trying to climb out of what had happened to them.

Evan rushed in with Lola, her expression fearful until she saw Stan smiling at her from his hospital bed. She broke into a teary smile and hurried to him, hugging his good arm and throwing herself onto his chest when Lola hoisted her up onto the bed. Distantly, Stan’s ribs ached, but he didn’t mention it; the painkillers made it bearable. Wayne hung back, looking nervous and blinking back tears. He walked forward when Stan reached for him, still clutching Evan to him with his other arm. 

“I'm okay,” Stan said when Wayne took his hand. Evan sniffled and sat back to touch Stan’s cheeks, patting his stubble. “Everything's all right,” Stan said, and he kissed her forehead. “Bebe saved the day.” 

“Mom said you got shot,” Wayne said, turning to Bebe. He was still holding Stan’s hand.

“I took a bullet for your dad,” Bebe said, and she winked. “But no harm done, in the long run. We're both pretty tough.” 

“Daddy,” Evan said, patting his cheek. “Do you still have to be a cop?”

“Yeah,” Stan said, because he also felt good, for having had even a bumbling role in capturing a killer. “But this won't happen again,” he said. “We caught the bad guy.” 

“Where is he?” Evan asked. 

“Dead,” Wayne said. “Right?” 

“Yeah,” Stan said, and he glanced at Bebe. He could see she still wasn't okay with having killed someone, however necessary it had been. “He, um. While he was trying to get away, he had an accident.” 

“Your mom called me,” Lola said, patting Stan's knee. “She's on her way, I'm going to pick her up at the airport tonight.” 

“Good,” Stan said. He'd mumbled instructions about who to call at some point; he couldn't remember which fellow officer he'd asked, but apparently they had followed through, or maybe Lola had been the one who'd gotten in touch with Sharon. “She'll probably be freaked out,” he said, smoothing Evan's hair down. “But everything's okay, right? You guys haven't seen Grandma in a while.” 

“Was it scary?” Wayne asked, dropping Stan's hand. He crossed his arms over his chest and blinked rapidly when Stan met his gaze. 

“Uh,” Stan said, not sure how much he wanted to say in front of Evan. “Yeah, it was scary. I'll tell you all about it, eventually.” 

“Cool,” Wayne said, nodding. “Yeah. I want to know.” 

“Me too,” Evan said, though she didn't sound sure. 

The kids left with Lola around seven with plans to get dinner before picking up Sharon. Lola asked Stan if she could bring him anything, but he still didn't have an appetite. He hugged Lola, Evan, and then Wayne for a long time before they left, and as soon as they were gone he wanted them back. Bebe had dozed off. Kenny was still sitting in the bed with her, kissing the back of her hand when she flinched in her sleep. 

“You okay?” Stan asked. Kenny looked up and snorted.

“Me?” he said. “Uh, yeah.” His eyes were bloodshot and his lips looked like they’d been chewed on, maybe by Bebe. “It's just fucked up,” he said, peering down at Bebe again. “Her doctor said that if the bullet had hit her a quarter inch higher it would have gone through a lung, and in the time it took to get her out of the place, down from the mountain, she could have--” 

“But it didn't hit her there,” Stan said. “She's lucky. We both are.” 

“I don't trust luck,” Kenny said, and he leaned down to put his face against Bebe's neck. A few minutes later they were both asleep. One of them was snoring softly; Stan couldn’t tell which. 

He turned to look at the window, close to drifting off again himself. The sun was going down. Somewhere outside, news programs were fired up again, blaring the new information about Scott Tenorman and the abandoned lab that had been his secret lair while he picked off members of the South Park community in an attempt to frame his half-brother. Cartman's name would be cleared, somewhat. There was still what he had done to Tenorman as a child, and the other things, too. Stan searched the small table beside his bed for his phone, wanting to talk to Kyle. He had no idea where his phone or any of his other personal effects had ended up. His gun would be in an evidence locker by now. He closed his eyes, resolving to have Lola or his mom find the phone for him later. It wasn’t like he would know what to say, even if he could call Kyle.

He woke to the feeling of a warm hand on his face. He was still heavily medicated and wanted more sleep, but the slight tremble in the fingertips on his skin drew him out from the haze. He assumed his mother had arrived, but then someone's thumb stroked softly across cheek, just under his eye, and he knew it wasn't her. He turned his face into Kyle's palm and reached up to hold his hand in place, needing this to be real, afraid it was a dream. 

“Stan,” Kyle said, barely audible, or maybe it was something Stan felt rather than heard. He smiled against Kyle’s skin and gave his palm a dry little kiss. When he wrenched his eyes open he found Kyle sitting on his bed, Kenny and Bebe still asleep across the room. The overhead lights had been dimmed and it was very dark outside, no snow falling. Kyle wasn't crying, but he was breathing in audible huffs like it was taking everything he had to hold it together. 

“You’re here,” Stan said, still having a hard time believing it. Kyle’s return had seemed too good to be true since the first smug flash of his FBI badge. Stan pressed his hand more firmly over Kyle’s and rubbed his thumb across Kyle's knuckles, wishing he felt strong enough to sit up and hold him. Kyle was wearing a fitted sweater and jeans, which seemed strange, and also like a kind of concession on behalf of Stan’s fragile condition. Kyle leaned down and pressed his forehead to Stan's, his eyes fluttering shut. 

“Oh my god,” Kyle said, whispering. “Stan, oh my god, fuck, shit, I can't believe--”

“I know, dude, but I'm okay. I promise, I'm all right.” 

“It’s--” Kyle’s voice pinched off, and he pushed his hand up into Stan’s hair, closing his fingers into the strands and almost pulling. He shook his head a little, holding himself away from Stan’s chest with his other arm. Maybe he knew about the broken ribs. “Your mother is here,” Kyle said, whispering. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say.” He was almost sheepish when he peeked at Stan again, looking as if he was waiting to be chastised for something. “I was so wrong. You could have died.” 

“What-- no, don’t. None of us knew. They still haven’t even figured out whose body Tenorman sunk in his car, I heard.” 

“Probably a transient-- oh, god.” Kyle sat up and put his hands over his face. “It’s incomprehensible,” he said, his voice muffled. “And then, that you-- That it was you and Bebe who crossed his path, in that horrible place, up in the fucking mountains. He was so close to skipping town, he had everything arranged.”

“I guess you’ve been working nonstop,” Stan said, touching Kyle’s thigh. “Since, uh. We found him.” 

“They’ve taken me off the case,” Kyle said. He sniffled and shrugged. “Mac’s still working on it, as a special advisor, so he tells me everything.”

“Well, that-- sucks?”

“Not really, it’s. It got too personal, once Cartman’s note was involved.” Kyle groaned. “I just want to collapse onto you,” he said. “But I can’t. I don’t deserve to.” 

“What are you talking about? C’mere, this is the good shoulder. Rest here with me for a second. You look so tired.” 

“I should get your mother, tell her you’re awake.” 

Instead, Kyle settled against Stan’s uninjured shoulder and gently eased himself up against Stan’s side, under his arm. Stan breathed in the clean scent of Kyle’s hair, which smelled a little bit like snow. He felt like they were outside of time, wandering across the open plain of a video game's world map, hiding together inside a dream.

“I’m sorry,” he said, clutching Kyle closer. 

“You’re apologizing to me?” Kyle snorted. “I almost got you killed. What do you have to be sorry for?”

“That’s a hell of a stretch, dude. Nobody almost got me killed except for Tenorman.” 

“He did this?” Kyle touched the bandage on Stan’s neck, and he moaned when he felt Stan shiver. 

“Yeah,” Stan said. “But, no, listen. I’m sorry I sent those stupid texts.” 

“What-- when? Oh, god, don’t worry about it. I emailed you to tell you that you needed therapy. I think I was out of my mind with work-related exhaustion at the time.”

“But your heart was in the right place. I knew that when I read it. And you're not wrong. I was just being stubborn.” 

“You were being stubborn? I stormed out of town and ignored your instincts. I just, I-- couldn’t get the mature distance I wanted from any of it, and least of all from you. I wanted to get angry at you about that. I tried.” 

“I tried, too,” Stan said. Kyle lifted his head and pressed two fingers to Stan’s lips, very softly. He looked so sad, and it scared Stan that he could still make Kyle sad and not know why, or how to stop. 

“I’m tired of fighting it,” Kyle said, whispering again. 

“What?” Stan asked, his hands going to Kyle’s waist. 

“That I need you. Like it’s some weakness. Maybe it is, but. There are worse things than being weak to this.” 

“You’re not weak.” Stan cupped Kyle’s face and swiped away the unshed tear at the corner of his eye before it could fall. Kyle had always hated crying in front of him. “I’m the one who can’t even lift my head off this pillow,” Stan said. “I’d be kissing you so hard if I could.” 

Kyle exhaled and swooped down, his lips just ghosting over Stan’s before he froze and turned toward the door. Sharon was there, tearful and holding her huge purse across her chest like a shield. 

“Stan, oh, honey,” she said, walking halfway toward the bed and pausing to laugh. “Kyle, I’m sorry. I didn’t know, um.” 

“It’s okay,” Kyle said. He tried to slide away, but Stan held him in place, wrapping his arm around Kyle’s waist and struggling to sit up against his pillows. He reached out for his mom with his free arm when she walked closer, and she kissed his hand before leaning down to hug him. Kyle started to move away again, but Sharon pulled him into the hug before he could. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said when she’d released them both, beaming at Kyle as if he had personally lifted Stan out of the hell Tenorman had kicked him into. Kyle seemed stunned, and Stan had to swallow down a laugh. 

“Yes, well,” Kyle said. “Me too.” 

Bebe’s mother also arrived that evening, coming from Nevada. She was far less composed than Sharon, who joined Bebe in attempting to convince Bebe's mother that her daughter was really was okay. Kyle lingered near Stan’s bed and seemed to feel awkward at times, even with Kenny, but he also seemed unwilling to leave. Stan couldn’t stop touching Kyle, mostly his back and his arms, groping for him clumsily even when he was already sitting on the bed. 

“I’m here,” Kyle murmured at one point, speaking into Stan’s ear when he was halfway between sleep and waking, numbed by the latest administration of pain meds from the nurse who periodically checked on him. Stan turned his face against Kyle’s and breathed deeply enough that he could feel a fuzzy ache in both broken ribs. 

“Stay here,” Stan said, and then he shook his head, because he didn’t expect Kyle to stay in South Park; Kyle hated it here, it haunted him. “I mean,” Stan said, blinking up at Kyle. “Don’t leave me?” 

That seemed like a different kind of request, but it sounded so selfish out loud. Kyle smiled and kissed Stan’s cheek, then his lips, very carefully. 

“I won’t leave you,” Kyle whispered, and Stan fell asleep believing him. In the place between awake and dreaming he knew it was true, not because he could predict the future but because, though they had both tried for years to believe that he had, Kyle had never left him in any way that mattered. Stan could feel it even when he slept: Kyle was close in a way that couldn't be defeated by physical distance or the passage of years, warm against his cheek, keeping him safe in the dark.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost a year later, this story is finally done! Thanks to all who read along and left comments, and to Sekrit for talking with me about this epilogue and giving me a better idea for how to wrap it all up. I'm not sure why this one took me so long, but I'm glad I wrote it and I like this ending, so I hope you guys will, too.

Stan was given the okay to start driving again when his cast came off, but he was still unsteady and reliant on a cane while his leg continued to heal. When Friday came, Bebe insisted on chauffeuring him to Denver one last time.

“Just until you get used to maneuvering around with that thing,” she said, and she gave the cane an unfriendly look when Stan turned to stash it in the backseat of her car. “I mean, what if you got a flat tire or something?” She shifted her grip on the steering wheel, studying Stan. “I'll just feel better driving you.”

“I already agreed to it,” Stan said. “I'm in the car, we're leaving.”

“I know I'm just – saying.”

They had both been more protective of each other than usual since the incident at the Mephesto lab, and Stan wasn't quite ready to give up their weekly drives to Denver either, despite his confidence that, if he’d had a flat tire on the way there, he would have been able to handle it without crumpling into distress. It was nice to have quiet time with Bebe, away from the job and the whispers and stares that they both still got around town. The national news stories about Tenorman and Cartman were finally beginning to die down, but in South Park the murders and the aftermath would be a hot topic for a while longer, and so would Stan and Bebe's recovery, by extension.

It was January, the second week of the new year. Next week Stan would be expected to return to work. Bebe had already, but the Chief had started her out slow, twenty hours a week and then thirty, and she still hadn't been out on a patrol. She said she couldn’t hit the streets again without Stan at her side, which was intentionally flattering but also felt true, at least from Stan's perspective. He couldn't imagine going back without her, and some days he still couldn't imagine going back at all. Lola and Sharon had both said they would love a two and a half month long vacation, and both had apologized for saying so, as if this dismissed Stan's suffering. He was still rattled, sometimes out of nowhere, and that he still had nightmares, but most days his time in Tenorman's lair seemed so brief and far away that it felt like a movie he'd seen. This was sometimes the most rattling part of the aftermath: trying to wrap his head around the fact that this thing had actually happened to him. Having visits to Kyle's place in Denver to look forward to helped with the out-of-work boredom, and at first these trips lasted four days, then six, and lately they had only been intersected by Stan's weekends at home in South Park with the kids. Without the need to show up for his job, there was no reason for him not to linger in Kyle's world, and it was refreshingly dreamlike to finally be able to do so, the other side of the surreal coin that his life had become. Stan was afraid of waking from this reprieve, though he did miss working and always felt a bit out of place hanging around Kyle’s apartment in Denver, unless Kyle was there with him. When they were together, everything was in place.

“I'm going to ask Kyle tonight,” Stan said as Bebe merged onto the highway. “About the kids coming to stay for a weekend sometime.”

“He'll be receptive to it,” Bebe said. “I'm surprised he hasn't suggested it!”

Stan wasn't, though he knew Kyle hoped to have a relationship with his kids eventually. Like Stan, Kyle had been reveling in their ability to be alone together during this between-eras time that would end when Stan returned to work. For now, they seemed to belong wholly to each other, even when Kyle left the apartment for a work meeting or Stan climbed into Bebe’s car for the drive back to South Park. They had been careful with each other since Stan’s release from the hospital, but not in the old, timid way that had stalled things in the past. They were careful to say precisely what they meant, and they both had a lot of plans for the future, none of which involved staying apart for very long. 

The traffic was bad going into the city. Stan was anxious by the time they pulled into the half-circle driveway outside of Kyle’s apartment building, and he couldn’t figure out why until Bebe rushed around the front of the car to help him climb out of the passenger seat. It was the cane; it felt like a kind of bad omen, a signal that things had changed already and that he hadn’t actually gone back in time with Kyle at all. They were still hobbled, a little, and Stan was embarrassed by how awkwardly he moved toward the building’s lobby doors. 

“You don’t have to walk me all the way in,” he said when Bebe hovered. “I’ve got it.”

“Just let me get this for you.” She held the door and gave him a worried smile as he walked inside. “Can you get the elevator?”

“Of course I can get the elevator.” Stan nodded to the doorman, who knew him well by now. “Thanks for the ride,” he said when Bebe kissed his cheek. “I’ll have Kyle bring me back.”

“He doesn’t have to. I know he doesn’t like being there. In South Park, I mean.” 

“Well, he doesn’t stay, he just drops me off.”

“Right, but I could, I don’t mind--”

“I’ll call you,” Stan said, and he squeezed her arm with his free hand. “Okay?”

“Okay.” She nodded. “Tell Kyle I said hi.”

Stan was anxious on the elevator ride upstairs, wondering if he should have texted Kyle from the road to tell him they had almost reached the apartment. He’d had a bad dream involving Kyle the night before, which wasn’t unusual, and the lingering, vivid memory of it was making him antsy to hold the real Kyle safe in his arms. The elevator seemed to take forever to climb to the sixteenth floor, and Stan was irritated by his own slowness as he moved down the long hallway toward Kyle's apartment. He hadn’t gotten the hang of using the cane, and his leg was aching with every clumsy step. There was a kind of giddiness accompanying his anxiety, like the blissfully brief impatience to get downstairs on Christmas morning. He could hear Kyle hurrying to get the door after his second knock, and the sight of him was almost too much, like a kind of emotional ice cream headache. Stan made an embarrassing, needy noise and hugged Kyle hard with both arms, letting his cane clatter to the floor. 

“Whoa,” Kyle said. He gripped Stan tightly when his weight slumped against Kyle’s. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing-- I had this dream, um. Nothing, I’m good, hi.” 

“You’re still not sleeping well?” Kyle rubbed Stan’s back and kissed his cheek. Stan shrugged, his injured leg beginning to tremble. 

“I’m sleeping okay, it’s just-- the dreams, sometimes.” He wobbled on his feet when he tried to pull back, and Kyle caught him. “I dropped my cane,” Stan said, staring at it. It had landed mostly inside Kyle's foyer, the tip poking out into the hall near Stan's feet. “It was supposed to be a surprise.” 

“The cane? Oh, right, your cast! It’s gone, wow. Come here, come in, poor Stan.” 

Kyle helped Stan over to the living room couch before returning to the foyer to retrieve the cane and shut the door. He was inspecting the cane with an unfriendly stare when he walked back into the living room. Stan slumped back onto the couch and let out a deep breath, exhausted just from the trip up from the lobby. He felt like an old man, but also like he was home at last. 

“It’s not, like, fashionable or anything,” he said when Kyle leaned the cane against the couch, within reaching distance. “They gave it to me at the hospital. On loan, I guess.” 

“How long do you have to use one?” Kyle asked.

“They didn’t give me a specific time frame. Just until I can put weight on the leg without any pain, I guess. C’mere.” 

“I was going to make tea,” Kyle said, but he dropped into Stan’s arms. Stan scooped him up and leaned back onto the couch cushions again, kissing Kyle's neck and his cheeks before bringing his lips to Kyle’s. They flexed against each other and both laughed a little when Kyle mounted Stan’s thigh. Kyle was blushing. Stan was getting hard inside his pants. “Tell me about your dream,” Kyle said, touching his fingertips to the stubble on Stan’s jaw. 

“It was about you,” Stan said. 

“I knew it. Let me make some tea, okay? Do you want some Advil for your leg?” 

“Nah. Tea’s good, just tea.” 

Stan didn’t particularly like tea and strongly preferred coffee, but he loved that Kyle always wanted to make him something on cold afternoons when he had just arrived, and he gladly took anything Kyle offered. Hot tea had become a kind of ritual for them at the start of these visits, to ward off any icicles that might have formed while they were apart. Stan stretched out on Kyle's couch and glanced over at his cane, again feeling self-conscious about how plain it was: dark brown wood of unknown origin, no flourishes. He wondered if there was such a thing as a fashionable cane, by modern standards. Kyle would know, but Stan was still a little embarrassed to ask questions about aesthetics, afraid he sounded like a bumpkin when he did. Kyle's apartment was fit for a magazine feature in its understated elegance, and the whole building was only two years old. It was a stylish space, and Kyle's décor was fitting within it: simple but warm, muted colors with tasteful accents. Stan loved every detail, though he didn't know enough about interior design to put his finger on why it all worked so well. He loved every decorative pillow placed with deliberate casualness on the couch, which was a firm, L-shaped sectional that was more comfortable than it looked. He loved Kyle's sleek, stainless steel tea kettle, which matched his other appliances thematically but not too precisely, and he wished he was able enough to help Kyle in the kitchen. Kyle emerged with a tray that held two tea cups on saucers and a little clay pot with tea bag strings dangling from its lid, cheese and crackers arranged on a plate that didn't match the tea cups but also didn't clash.

“You're the best,” Stan said when Kyle set all of this down on his coffee table. Kyle snorted as if this was inaccurate. “No, you are,” Stan said, wanting to grope for him even as he poured the tea. “I'm serious, just. I love it here. All the little details. This pillow, even,” he said, picking up a squat, royal blue one with a velvet cover.

“I'm glad you like my pillow,” Kyle said. “Three sugars?” He asked every time, as if he was hoping Stan would change his mind.

“Whatever you think is best,” Stan said. Kyle laughed.

“What's with you?” he asked. “You're punch drunk or something. Here, have some cheese. And tell me about this dream you had.”

“I don't know if I should.” 

Stan didn't want to upset him; he knew Kyle was haunted by bad dreams, too, and that his sleep cycles could be erratic due to various types of stress. When they were together, waking from a nightmare was nice: the artificial danger vanished, and comforting each other afterward felt like important work that they were both well qualified for, a kind of sacred duty they were specifically designed to perform. Apart, the empty bedrooms they woke to felt more like confirmation that the bad dreams might sneak past the unguarded borders of the real world and hurt them. 

“Maybe it's more something for a therapist to hear,” Stan said when Kyle handed him a tea cup, then a stack of crackers with some soft cheese melting between them.

“Nonsense,” Kyle said. He settled onto the couch beside Stan, scooting under his arm. “You said it was about me! That means I've got to hear it.”

“Well, it's not a prophecy,” Stan said, horrified by the thought. The dream had been worse for Kyle than for him, by far.

“Obviously,” Kyle said. “But you can't tell someone you had a disturbing dream about them and then not say what happened. And I can help you analyze it.” Kyle snuggled closer, resting his shoulder against Stan's as he sipped his tea. “I have lots of experience with analysis,” he said, and Stan leaned over to kiss his nose.

“Okay,” Stan said. “Well. To start with, it took place in South Park, and I was a teenager.”

“Of course it did, and of course you were. See, this is fertile ground already.”

“Huh, yeah. So, it's wintertime, and I'm walking to your house. You're sick, in bed with a cold or something like that, and you're waiting for me to turn up and keep you company while you rest. And on my way there I take a detour.”

“Uh oh,” Kyle said. “Is Cartman in this dream?” 

“No, thankfully.” Stan hadn’t been dreaming about him or Tenorman much, and when he told his therapist this she said the subconscious was often less literal than that.

“So where was your detour to?” Kyle asked.

“An icy pond. It wasn't Stark's Pond, it was this weird suburban reservoir right in our neighborhood, behind the houses. I got in and started swimming, and I could feel how cold it was even in the dream, maybe because my bedroom was cold in real life. The water was murky, swimming in it was miserable, and it was like I’d gotten in because I thought I deserved that.”

“Stan.” Kyle cuddled closer to him, resting the bottom of his tea cup against Stan's reclining chest. The heat that emanated from it felt good, a welcome supplement to the warmth of Kyle's body. Stan pressed his face into Kyle's hair and braced himself to tell the rest.

“So I'm swimming from one side of this pond to the other,” Stan said. “But the water isn't still. It's swirling, moving pretty fast, like a river, and I'm confused about that until I see that it's all being sucked into this giant storm drain. I mean, the thing is huge, maybe ten feet tall and twenty feet wide, and I'm headed straight for it, this strong current pulling me in. Inside the storm drain there's just this gaping darkness, and this feeling of doom is coming from the darkness, like if I get swallowed up by it there's no getting out.”

“Jesus,” Kyle said, petting Stan's chest. “I don't suppose I saved you?”

“You tried to! But I remember thinking in the dream, 'I'm strong, I can swim to the other side, I can fight the current.' And I did, I got past the storm drain to the other side of the pond, and I pulled myself out of the water. And then I turned around and I saw what I'd done. You'd seen me, I guess, and you had jumped in to try to save me. You were heading straight for the storm drain, and when our eyes met it was like we both just knew you wouldn't be able to swim hard enough to fight the current. Because you were sick, I guess.”

“You don't have to stroke dream me's ego,” Kyle said. “Maybe I wasn’t strong enough anyway, in your view. This is about, well. You did always want to save me, and I guess you thought you couldn't. Or that you were imperiling me somehow.”

“Well, yeah. Kyle, ah, god, it sounds dumb now, but this dream was so fucking heartbreaking.”

“It doesn't sound dumb! What happened? I was sucked into the darkness, never to be seen again?”

“No. Worse! You grabbed onto the edge of the storm drain, and we both knew you only had a few seconds before that current dragged you inside. It was like a sewer, and I wasn't just worried you'd be hurt, I knew you'd be disgusted once you were in there, and that it was my fault you were going to end up in this repulsive place. I told you that I was going to get help. You looked at me – dude, the look on your face, it was so sad. Like you didn't want to blame me, and you wanted to trust that I’d get you out of there, but you also just knew you were done for. And then the thing sucked you in, you disappeared into it, but I could still hear your little voice from inside the drain, and you were so scared. You were trying to convince me that you believed I was going to get you out of there, but I could hear that you were having a hard time believing that. It was this little whimper, your voice– Sorry, is this awful? I should have just said all this in therapy.”

“It's not awful,” Kyle said. He put his tea cup on the coffee table and wrapped both his arms around Stan. “I like that you're telling me,” he said, more softly. “I like hearing, um. All the behind the scenes Stan stuff.”

“Okay.” Stan finished his tea in a gulp; it was still too hot and burned the back of his throat a bit, but he wanted his hands free to grasp the real Kyle while he told the rest. “So,” he said, sliding his arm around Kyle's waist, the other snug around his shoulders. “I take off running to get this thing that's going to save you. And this is where the dream gets more absurd than disturbing.”

“Oh, good!”

“But it's still disturbing to me, in the dream, because I'm trying so hard to help you and everything's fucked. Anyway, um, the thing I need to save you, apparently, is this little carton of four Easter eggs.”

“Of course.”

“Right. So I run into this supermarket to buy them, but there are only four cartons left, and each of them has at least one egg missing, and I somehow know that it's because people have stolen them. I'm furious.”

“Me too! Those assholes. What did the thieves even need these Easter eggs for?”

“I don't know, but I say, screw it, I'm gonna go back and pull Kyle out myself. Like, suddenly it occurs to me that I had the power to save you all along, and I didn’t need to waste time getting any eggs. But when I turn around, half the supermarket has transformed into the set for one of those celebrity judge TV shows, and I have to like, sneak across the floor in front of the judge's-- podium?”

“Bench,” Kyle said, reaching for the cheese and crackers.

“Oh, right, the judge’s bench. Anyway, I get past that obstacle, and suddenly I'm in this crowded dining room full of old women in church clothes, and everywhere I move I'm bumping into them, they're as thick as spawning salmon, and they're preventing me from getting to you.”

“Poor Stan!” Kyle popped a cracker in his mouth. Chewing, he brushed away a few crumbs that had fallen onto Stan's sweater.

“Sorry,” Stan said. “This is inane, I know, telling you my dumb dream--”

“It's not inane at all, I'm on the edge of my seat! What became of me? Did you start thrashing church ladies out of the way?”

“No, what happens is that the judge takes the podium – bench, I mean – and he starts giving the old ladies this sermon, and they're all cheering. He says he'll see them outside for 'street praise,' whatever that means.”

“That's funny!” Kyle said. “I just saw a poster for Street Yoga at my gym the other day. I thought, what the hell?”

“Yeah. What the hell is that?”

“I don't know, yoga you can do while waiting to cross a busy intersection?”

“There's a busy intersection in the next part of the dream!”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I finally get out of the supermarket television studio dining room nightmare and I'm outside, running back to the pond, to you. I come to this really busy intersection with icy roads, and I know it's dangerous, and that the people driving these cars won't care if they hit me. But I manage to get across one street onto this kind of grassy median between the next street and the pond, only I step in a huge mud puddle and my shoe fills with mud.”

“Oh, Stan. Your leg.” Kyle reached down to rub Stan's thigh. “It'll heal soon. Good as new, you'll get all your mobility back.”

“I know. In the dream it was more like, um. Well, maybe you're right. It slowed me down. General leg anxiety. So then I woke up.”

“You woke up! You never got back to me?”

“No.” Stan pushed his hand up under Kyle’s sweater, stroking the bare skin over his hip with his thumb. “I woke up and I wanted to call you. To make sure you were okay. But it was four thirty in the morning.”

Kyle pulled away from Stan and stared into the distance, frowning slightly, as if this was a prophecy after all. He sighed. 

“I want you to live here,” Kyle said. “But I know that’s not possible right now,” he added quickly. “I’m glad you told me about this dream, thank you. I just wish I was always there when you wanted me, at four thirty in the morning, whenever.” 

“You are, though,” Stan said, leaning over to hug him from behind. “I could have called. You wouldn’t have been that mad.” He thought about using this moment as an opportunity to ask about bringing the kids along for his next Denver visit, and wondered if that would be like some kind of middle ground between his living here and not, or an even less ideal scenario, in Kyle’s view. “What’s the plan for today?” Stan asked, not ready to get into it about the kids or his future living arrangements. He gave Kyle a little jostle and kissed his cheek. “Hmm?” 

“Well,” Kyle said, relaxing against him again. “The plan is that we’re going to finish our tea, and I’ll tell you about my work week.”

“Okay, good. Someday soon I’ll have a work week to tell you about, too.” 

“Yes, and I want to hear about how you’re feeling, you know, about going back on patrol soon. After that, you can make love to me down by the fire.” 

Kyle gestured to the gas fireplace, which was turned on already, fluming low and cozy. There were some large throw pillows resting inconspicuously against the hearth, and Kyle had tossed a velvet blanket over them. Stan grinned and nodded, consenting to this plan. They’d called sex ‘making love down by the fire’ as kids, because it was an inside joke, and because it was less embarrassing, somehow, to say it that way. Lately they had resumed this habit, and Stan now found the phrase both arousing and comforting. 

“Then we can do whatever we want until dinner,” Kyle said, his hand sliding down to the inside of Stan’s thigh. Stan was aware that this probably meant they would nap and have sex again, and he was all in favor. “I thought we could go early to Meadowlark, or maybe Brazen? They both get slammed on Fridays after office hours, but they don’t take reservations. That still bugs me, you know, I guess it’s suburban of me, but I really do get anxious not having a reservation on a weekend evening, and then I turn up at five and feel stupid, but if you wait an hour or whatever, to be less pathetic about it, you’re screwed!”

“I know,” Stan said. He was unbuttoning Kyle’s shirt, ready to lay him down by the fire. “It’s crazy. Why don’t they take reservations?”

“Well, they’d have to turn away too many walk-ins, I guess, or maybe it’s just considered lame to have a reservation book anymore, who knows. But does that sound good to you?”

“That sounds perfect to me,” Stan said. He leaned in to kiss Kyle’s neck, slipping his hand inside his half-unbuttoned shirt. “I wish I could carry you,” he said, trying to shake the lingering memory of watching Kyle slip helplessly into that storm drain in the dream. 

“What, to the fireplace?” Kyle grinned as if he liked the idea, his grip on Stan’s thigh tightening. “Well, soon enough that will be possible. Maybe, um. Let’s wait to talk about work after we fuck. I mean, after we make sweet love down by the fire. You know what I mean.” 

“I know,” Stan said, and he kissed Kyle in agreement. 

It was awkward to be helped over to the fireplace by Kyle, but still better than using the cane, which Stan left leaning against the couch. It had no place in their fireside lovemaking scene. Getting down onto the floor was awkward as well, and Stan's leg was hurting, but he mostly forgot this when Kyle slumped down onto him and rolled his hips down against Stan's, grinding their erections together. They were both partial to dry humping as foreplay, and Stan had considered this might be some kind of physical lamentation for the teen romance they’d withheld from each other. The thought was more uplifting than wistful, and he liked the idea that they could reclaim those lost years in wordless intervals, as if sex was a kind of time machine, and then reappear as adults who were finally making a home together, one long weekend at a time.

“Get the condoms,” Stan said when Kyle's mouth was still on his dick, this tongue traveling up and down the shaft while he held Stan's trembling thighs apart. Stan sat up on his elbows and peered down at Kyle, not sure if he wanted this command to be pragmatic or hot; it was hard to know exactly when Kyle would want to be ordered around. “I need it now,” Stan said when Kyle just stared at him like the call for a condom had confused him. “You, now,” Stan said, reaching for him. 

“I've got lube here,” Kyle said, and he dug a slender white bottle from between two of the throw pillows. He stared down at the bottle, sitting on his knees and turning it over in his hand. They were both naked, hard, and Kyle had put on an streaming playlist that Stan hadn't really paid attention to until this moment. The playlist had arrived at “Pink Moon,” and it was probably designed as music for two adults to have sex to in an unironic but also not too serious way. 

“What's wrong?” Stan asked when Kyle remained on his knees. 

“Nothing.” Kyle uncapped the lube and gave Stan a shy smile. “I, uh. Well, I just saw the Bureau doctor, you know, we have to get a physical every year. I'm, you know. We could have sex without a condom, as long as you're okay to do – that. As long as this is going to be, like. Just you and me, from now on.” 

“Yes,” Stan said, maybe too eagerly; he didn't want to sound like he was overcompensating for some rogue thought that this wouldn't now last forever, because he was counting on it being him and Kyle from now on so completely that losing faith in that would be like waking up in alternate dimension. He just needed Kyle to know, as firmly and quickly as possible, that his answer to that question was yes. Kyle smiled down at the lube and squeezed some onto his fingers. 

“Good,” he said. “And none of those vile Kevins gave you anything?”

“No, god, no-- I, you know, when I was in the hospital I had blood work done, I'm fine. You can hop on with confidence.” 

Stan's dick was standing up like a tent pole, so this phrasing had seemed funny before he heard himself say it. Kyle snorted and spread his knees apart, reaching back to finger himself. Stan wanted to complain that he couldn't see, but it didn't seem like the right time to do so.

“With confidence,” Kyle said, and he smiled a little, crookedly. “Yeah,” he said, arching his back while he worked two fingers in. “That's a trick only you can do.” 

“What?” 

“Making me feel confident. Really and truly seeing me this way that, just. Yeah.” 

Kyle squatted over Stan and sank down onto him slowly, which Stan appreciated, because he wanted to spend several years just relishing the feeling of Kyle all around him, nothing between them at last. Stan had never had anal sex without a condom, which didn't seem romantic enough to vocalize, though it did seem important and was probably something he would mention to Kyle later, after a few beers and before a more adventurous, less monumental fuck. Kyle was gasping a lot, as if going without a condom had made Stan's dick bigger, thicker, and more impressive generally. Stan appreciated that, and kissed Kyle hard when he finally leaned down and brought his gasping mouth to Stan's. 

“This is really all I want to do,” Kyle said, shifting his hips up. They both gasped when he snapped them back down, though it was the smallest of thrusts, just an inch or so of Stan's cock out and then in again; still, it was miraculous, and Stan's mouth was wet with everything he wanted to say. “Well, and dinner,” Kyle said, his face hovering over Stan's. “Later.” 

It was barely two o'clock in the afternoon and Kyle was thinking about dinner, while having sex, worrying about how they would have to show up early, always thinking far ahead enough to make himself fear that he might not have everything just as he wanted it. Stan was overcome with a kind of physical sensation of love that seemed to be emanating from Kyle's body as much as from his own, something that rippled through him like an always present but previously locked-up substance that had been released into his blood stream. He took two handfuls of Kyle's curls and kissed him hard, pressing his hips upward. Kyle moaned into Stan's mouth and clenched around him, thrusting down to meet every jerk of Stan's hips. Stan abandoned any attempt at rhythm and came without warning, like a teenager, like they really had traveled back in time. 

“Fuck,” he panted, trying to keep his eyes open. Kyle was a beautiful blur above him, kissing his eyelids. “Sorry,” Stan said when Kyle moved down to kiss his neck. 

“No, don't be.” Kyle swallowed a kind of whinnying noise that made Stan hold him closer, his arms tightening around Kyle instinctively. Kyle was either on the verge of tears or trying not to come so quickly himself. “It was perfect,” he said when he lifted his face to Stan's again. Stan smiled, because he knew what Kyle meant: it was like it would have been back then, everything brand new and over too fast, but also with the the whole lazy day ahead of them, every unclaimed minute another opportunity for them to try it again. 

They took their time disconnecting and arranged themselves on the floor by the fire, Kyle only protesting softly when Stan used the blanket to mop some come from Kyle's belly. Kyle flipped the blanket around before he pulled it up over his shoulder, and he rested his head on Stan's chest while he talked about work, updating Stan on the mundane caseload he had take on since the ordeal in South Park. Stan stroked Kyle's hair while he listened, enjoying the freshly shampooed smell that got stronger when his fingers moved through Kyle's curls. 

“My mother was asking about you,” Kyle said, and something about this statement made Stan laugh. “What?” Kyle said. 

“Nothing. What did Sheila want to know about me?”

“She was asking if you have a new lease on life now that you've cheated death. I think that's how she put it.” Kyle sat up on his elbow and frowned as if he didn't approve of that phrasing. “I mean, she wants to know if your perspective changed, or something. That was her first question after I told her we were seeing each other now.” 

“That sounds like Sheila.” 

“I've wondered, too,” Kyle said, looking down at Stan's chest. “Or worrying, I guess. It will sound stupid, but I was worried that this was some kind of post-escaping death mood that would pass.” 

“This?” Stan said. 

“Us. But--”

“Kyle--”

“I know, I know.” Kyle kissed Stan as if to tell him that worry had mostly passed, but Stan could still taste his hesitation to relax into their new reality. Stan understood, because they were still partly between realities, and he was determined to help ease Kyle into it while he figured out how to believe they could keep this, too. 

They decided to eat at Meadowlark, since it was the shorter walk from Kyle’s apartment. Being in Kyle's space and lounging by the fire had made Stan feel so floaty and between worlds that he had nearly forgotten he would have to use the cane. It was awkward on the icy sidewalk, and Kyle offered to hail an Uber car at least ten times during the two and a half block to the restaurant.

“Stop,” Stan said. “Seriously, dude. I’m fine. I need the practice.” 

“I feel like this is my fault,” Kyle said, eying Stan like he was going to tumble into the street at any moment. 

“It’s actually Scott Tenorman’s fault,” Stan said. “And mine, partly, for chasing him myself like an idiot.” 

“You’re not an idiot. He might have gotten away, if you hadn't-- God, it’s so weird to hear his name out loud, still. It’s like the more I hear it at work and on the news, the more surreal it is, not less.” 

“Yeah.” Stan wasn’t sure ‘surreal’ was the right word for his feelings about that name, though the whole thing felt like something that had taken place in another dimension. “I hate the idea that you’d blame yourself for anything that went on in South Park last year,” Stan said, and he used this as an excuse for a dramatic pause in his fumbling progress toward the restaurant, which they had nearly reached. Kyle turned to him, his expression serious but calm. His cheeks were a little pink from the cold. Stan was looking forward to a good meal and some drinks, the noise of a crowded restaurant in a city that still seemed very big to him, but he was also already thinking about returning to the apartment and wrapping Kyle up in blankets again. “Nothing was your fault,” Stan said. “We all did the best we could in an insane situation.” 

“I just feel like I muddled things,” Kyle said. “Not even professionally, but emotionally. With my name ending up in that fake suicide note--”

“I know.” Stan touched Kyle's cheek, the cane wobbling a bit when he rested his weight more fully on it. “But the truth is, you saved me when you came back. Everything’s better now, Kyle, just. Everything.” 

Kyle grinned and turned to look at the front door of the restaurant. People in stylish overcoats were overflowing from the front lobby and huddling around the glow of their phones while they waited for a table. Stan hoped that the cane would mean he would at least be given a seat at the bar while they waited. 

“It is better,” Kyle said. “Here, too. Oh, Stan, you’re shaking. C’mon, let’s find you someplace to sit.” 

Stan’s cane proved to be an express pass to a small table near the restaurant’s front windows. It was a bit cramped and loud, close to the bar, but this gave Stan an excuse to lean across the table and nearly rest his forehead against Kyle’s in order to be heard, and he liked the feeling of both of them straining toward each other while ignoring the noise of the crowd that swirled around them. It reminded him a little bit of their experiences in South Park, growing up within a cacophony that they endured together by leaning in close, and he considered telling Kyle so after one strong drink with a rye whiskey base and at least four other impressive ingredients, but he decided it could wait. Kyle ordered a bottle of champagne, and he justified this by reminding Stan that select bottles were half-price until six, as if Stan had objected. 

“There’s a band playing later,” Kyle said. “But not for three hours or something like that. I should have asked you if you wanted to hear the band, we could have come later--” 

“I’m happy with this,” Stan said, and he reached across the table to rest his fingertips over Kyle's knuckles. Kyle leaned onto the table in something like a swoon, and Stan knew this would a good time to bring up the idea of his kids coming for a visit. He hesitated, and then a waitress arrived with the champagne and two glasses. When she was gone, Kyle seemed too preoccupied with his order of onion rings to really concentrate on conversation, or maybe that was a lame excuse. Stan couldn’t decide if during dinner or back at the apartment would be the right time to bring up the kids. “How’s Mac?” he asked when Kyle looked up at him, chewing. 

“He’s fine. Are you sure you don’t want some of these?”

“I’m good, you finish them. So is Mac, uh. Still busy with the Tenorman fallout, or is that mostly wrapped up for him now?”

“Well, there's lots to do, but nothing as urgent as actually, you know, locating an active killer. I think he's a little tired of desk work. Personally, I'm finding it refreshing.” 

“Yeah.” Stan thought of returning to patrol and felt a little twinge of dread, but the idea of doing paper work at the precinct indefinitely was worse. “I'm just glad Bebe will be there when I get back to it,” he said. “I think between the two of us we can sort of, you know, get past this.” 

“Right. And your therapy--” Kyle let that statement trail off, and Stan drank some champagne.

“I'm still going,” he said. “It helps.” This was true, but not something he loved discussing, even with Kyle. 

“I'm glad,” Kyle said. He looked out the window at the street, where the bundled-up crowd still waited for space to open up inside. Stan finished his champagne and threaded his fingers through Kyle's on the table, bracing himself. 

“I was thinking,” Stan said, and he could feel Kyle stiffen a little as his gaze slid from the window to meet Stan's again, a slight twitch in his hand. “What about-- and if you hate this idea, that's okay, if it's too soon--”

“Oh, god,” Kyle said. “What could be too soon, between us, after all this time?” 

Stan smiled and shrugged. Kyle was right. 

“I was thinking about my kids coming here for a visit,” Stan said. “I think it would be good, eventually. I still think about that breakfast we had with them in South Park, just. How happy it made me to feel like you were a part of my family, like they could see how much I love you, and why.” 

“I loved that breakfast, too,” Kyle said. “And just-- I mean, it is weird to think of your kids here, I'll admit, but. At my apartment-- Where would they sleep?”

“Well--”

“But it's good!” Kyle brought Stan's hand to his lips and kissed it, smiling. “We'll figure it out. I can buy an air mattress, or-- no, would they hate that?”

“Evan would love it. Wayne could sleep on your couch.”

“Right, true.” 

Stan could see plans formulating behind Kyle's eyes, concerns and details and some measure of excitement, too. He was still sort of nuzzling Stan's hand, absently kissing his knuckles in little pecks, and he didn't stop until the waitress came to ask if they wanted to order more small plates. Kyle picked six things he wanted, and Stan nodded along with every selection when Kyle looked to him for input. It seemed like a lot of food, but also appropriate, along with the champagne: they were celebrating, feasting, and it was both the end of this refreshingly simple interlude and the beginning of something better.

The rest of the weekend was like that: bundled up together against the cold, they were decadent and revelatory but still careful, tip-toeing around joy that was so suddenly copious it didn't need to be cataloged and hoarded like it once had, like meadows full of flowers blooming in winter, growing stubbornly through thick snow. Stan slept late in the mornings and woke to see Kyle at his computer, working on reports and doing research, and at one point browsing for air mattresses online. Kyle fretted over Stan's leg and seemed always ready to catch Stan when he hobbled around with the help of the cane. Stan stumbled a few times but never actually fell, and even his dreams were mild. Early Monday morning he woke from a disorienting dream about wandering through a maze; it wasn't a nightmare, but the maze was a place that he badly wanted to leave behind, and when he woke and found himself in Kyle's bed, wrapped around Kyle's back, he realized where that sense of urgency came from. He would always be trying to get back here, to the blanket fort he had been occupying with Kyle in varying degrees since childhood, where they could both rest easy in the feeling that they had made it through many mazes to get to this, the prize at the center. 

Kyle drove Stan back to South Park on Monday afternoon. They were going against the flow of traffic that was still heavy on the other side of the highway, and it was nice to listen to the radio news together but also a little tense and sad. Stan kept thinking of ways that they could at least live less than an hour apart, but he wasn't confident enough about any of these half-formed plans to vocalize them yet. He kept his hand on Kyle's thigh for most of the drive, his cane leaning against his knee. 

“When do you have the kids next?” Kyle asked when they started seeing the signs for the South Park exit. 

“This weekend,” Stan said. “But that's – we don't have to have them up to your place that soon. I know you need time to, like. Get the place ready.” 

“They're not infants,” Kyle said. “I don't have to baby-proof the place. You could-- maybe not overnight, but you could bring them up for dinner, if you can drive.”

“I can drive,” Stan said. He hesitated to confirm this plan, not sure he would be able to talk Wayne into it. They had gotten along fine since Stan's hospital stay, but Stan was afraid things had been a little too smooth between them, as if Wayne was holding back his real feelings and would unleash them as soon as Stan wasn't teetering around pathetically with the help of a cane. “We'll work it out,” Stan said, patting Kyle's thigh. “This weekend, or maybe next weekend. I'm just glad you're okay with hosting them.”

“Stan! Of course I'm okay with it. It always bothered me to think that you had these children that I didn't even know, even when we'd sort of lost touch. Just the idea that there was this huge part of you that I had no concept of-- I hated it. I want to know them, really, like. It's important.” 

Stan was relieved, and also embarrassed by how nervous he had been about bringing up this subject. Bebe had been right: of course Kyle wanted to get to know his kids, of course enough had transpired between them to make that appropriate now. It was just strange to finally be dating an adult after a year of Kevins and the longstanding sense that he and Lola had never quite graduated from children who were playing house together too soon. 

They rounded the corner onto Stan’s street and something immediately struck him as off. He sat forward, squinted, and saw someone shoveling his driveway. It was a man Stan didn’t recognize at first, and when they drove closer he realized why. It wasn’t a man, it was his son. It was Wayne. 

“Wow, look at him,” Kyle said. “That’s sweet. Has he been doing this since you hurt your leg?”

“No,” Stan said. “I mean -- I thought. I noticed someone was doing it, but I assumed it was Kenny. He’s been coming over with groceries, with Bebe, so I just-- thought.” 

Wayne stopped shoveling and looked up when he heard Kyle’s car slowing to a stop. His expression was somewhere between annoyed and startled, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. Kyle put the car in park and shifted his hands on the steering wheel. He smiled uncertainly when Stan turned to him. 

“Should I get out?” Kyle asked. “I’m never going to know what to do,” he said before Stan could answer. “That’ll be the thing that will drive you crazy, maybe, when it comes to your kids. I don’t have any experience.” 

“Nobody has experience with kids until they do,” Stan said. He was so thrown by Wayne’s unexpected presence that he barely knew what he was saying, and he wasn’t sure if he could kiss Kyle goodbye with his son watching. “You’ve got that meeting at three-- it’s fine. The drive back will be shitty, so. You should get going. Thanks for driving me. Thanks for everything.” Stan took Kyle’s right hand from the wheel and squeezed it. “I love you,” he said. 

“Yeah.” Kyle squeezed back. “I know. And you know--”

“I know.” 

“Don’t dream anything too awful about me until I see you again, okay? No bottomless sewers.” 

“I’ll be the one who gets sucked into the bottomless sewer next time, I promise.” 

“Stan! No!”

Stan leaned over to kiss Kyle’s cheek, quickly and without really thinking about it. He winked before climbing out of the car, only struggling a little with the cane. Wayne was still standing in the middle of the driveway, holding the shovel across his body like he might need to use it as a weapon. 

“I thought you wouldn’t be back until tonight,” Wayne said when Stan hobbled toward him. Wayne’s cheeks were pink from the cold, or the from the effort of shoveling, or maybe he was embarrassed. Stan heard Kyle driving off, his wheels crunching over the snow in the gutter as he turned the car back toward the neighborhood entrance. 

“He has a work meeting,” Stan said, tilting his head in the direction of Kyle’s departing car. “So we came back a little early. Did Mom tell you to do this?”

“No.” Wayne was watching Kyle drive off. He shifted his gaze to meet Stan’s when Kyle’s car had turned the corner. “Where’s he going? He doesn’t have to leave because of me.” 

“He’s not, bud. I told you, he’s got a meeting back in the city. He was just giving me a ride. C’mon, come inside for a minute. Take a break. Has it been you this whole time?” 

“Me-- what? Shoveling?”

“Yeah, shoveling.” 

Wayne shrugged, which meant yes, and Stan slid his arm around Wayne’s shoulders as they walked toward the front door together. He didn’t shrug Stan off, maybe just because of the cane. 

“Well, thanks,” Stan said. “I didn’t know. I thought maybe it was Kenny.” 

“I didn’t want you to know,” Wayne said, mumbling.

“How come?”

“Because then you’d make it into a big deal. I do Mom’s driveway and then I do yours. It’s not a big deal.” 

Stan nodded and unlocked the front door. He could remember that feeling, when his parents thinking something was significant or important or worthy of discussion was a sign that it should be minimized and avoided as much as possible. He remembered wanting even the nice things about himself to fly under the radar and avoid too much parental attention, so he didn’t fall all over Wayne with weepy gratitude for shoveling his driveway, though it was a hard impulse to resist. Wayne followed him into the kitchen, and Stan thought about what Randy would have done in this situation. Probably he would have offered his son a beer, a little taste of maturity as a reward for doing something kind without being asked. Stan was half tempted to, though he knew he shouldn’t. He heated up some milk for hot chocolate instead, overcome for a moment by a powerful wave of longing to hang out with his dad. Randy was a resource Stan had once never thought he would miss when it came to navigating fatherhood and wanting advice, but here he was, hating that he'd never have that again.

“Take your coat off,” Stan said when Wayne just stood near the fridge. “I’m making you a hot drink. Want something to eat?”

“No.” Wayne slid off his coat and draped it onto the back of a kitchen chair, then unwound his scarf, pulled off his gloves. He didn’t sit at the table, and Stan got the feeling Wayne was surfing some kind of emotional storm surge, too, but he knew these things were delicate, and that if he prodded at all he might scare any impulse to share it away. “Dad?” Wayne said when Stan turned toward the sink to rinse off some dishes that had accumulated there. 

“Yeah?” Stan kept his back turned, waiting. 

“Why’d you-- If you just wanted to be with that guy the whole time, why’d you even marry Mom? Why’d you do, like. Any of it?”

Stan shut the water off and braced himself on the counter as he turned, leaving his cane propped against the dishwasher. He’d known this question would come, but he’d thought it might still be a few years down the road. Wayne was holding the back of the chair where he’d laid his coat, his thumbs tapping the collar while he tried to keep his expression hard. He didn’t really seem angry, not yet. He seemed like he was trying to be grown-up, which meant he had to keep pace ahead of whatever he was actually feeling, and Stan knew there was no going back now: Wayne would keep trying to be grown-up until suddenly he was. 

“I didn’t want him the whole time,” Stan said. “I wanted a lot of things. Maybe he was one of them, but I hadn’t worked any of that out yet. All I knew back then was that I wanted to be there for your mom, and then for you. I wanted a family. That was one thing I had in mind even when I was your age. I always pictured myself growing up and having a kid just like you.” 

It was true, but Stan wasn’t sure Wayne would believe it. He knew his credibility was in the toilet at present. Wayne pulled out the chair and sat, looking down at the table. 

“What do you mean, just like me?” he asked. 

“I mean a son who looks like me and is a good kid, and smart, and who looks out for his little sister. You know. The basics. When I thought about my future, I thought about you. Even before your mom got pregnant.” 

Stan went to the fridge and got out a beer. It was early, but this was a special occasion. He set it on the table and went to the microwave for the mug of hot milk, poured in the powdered chocolate with the little freeze-dried marshmallows. He hoped Wayne still liked the stuff. 

“What do you think about coming up to Denver with us sometime?” Stan asked when he took a seat across from Wayne. He popped open the can of beer, and Wayne hugged his hands around the mug of hot chocolate. 

“Me?” Wayne said. “With you-- and him?”

“You and Evan both.” Stan was doing his best to pretend to be more grown-up than he really was, too, and that meant acting casual: this was not a big deal. “Just for dinner in the city, and you guys could spend the night up there if you want. Kyle has a cool apartment. He lives right in the middle of town, on the sixteenth floor of this pretty swanky building.” 

Wayne snorted, probably at the word swanky, and blew on his hot chocolate. Stan sipped from his beer and passed it over, moving it carefully between his thumb and forefinger. Wayne stared at it, then looked up at Stan. 

“You’re giving that to me?” he said.

“No. But you can have a sip if you want. Until your hot chocolate cools off. And if you don’t tell your mother.” 

“I don’t even like the way it tastes,” Wayne said, but he picked up the can and sipped from it, wincing a little. “Gross,” he said. He slid the beer back toward Stan, smiled and stared down into his hot chocolate mug while steam swirled up from it. “I won’t tell Mom.” 

“I know,” Stan said, and he had to stop himself from gushing: _I do trust you, you’re so good, you’re a better kid than I’ll ever deserve_. “So do you think you’d like to do that sometime?” he said instead. “Come up to Denver, you and Evan? We could go to a Broncos game.” 

“Whatever,” Wayne said. “If Evan wants to, I’d go with her.” 

When he was done with his hot chocolate Wayne returned to the driveway to finish shoveling. Stan called Lola to make sure that she knew where he was, and she confirmed that this had been Wayne’s idea, not hers. Feeling guilty for resting inside while he listened to the scrape of the shovel against the the pavement, Stan decided to make some cheeseburgers with bacon for an early dinner. It was Wayne’s favorite, and while it might not be enough to convince him to stay after he finished with the driveway, it was worth a shot. 

“You’ve got to be hungry now,” Stan said when Wayne came into the kitchen, breathless and red-cheeked. The light outside was already fading, and the bacon was just coming out of the frying pan, burgers already finished and leaking grease onto a paper towel-covered plate. “I had to use Swiss cheese,” Stan said when Wayne stood in the kitchen doorway, surveying the scene. “I know you like cheddar, but I’m out.” 

“Swiss is okay,” Wayne said. “I’m gonna take a shower.” 

“Yep, go ahead. Mom knows you’re here. She won’t mind if you stay for a burger.” 

Stan put some frozen tater tots in the oven while Wayne took a shower, and he put out some of his own clothes for Wayne to change into. It was incredibly endearing to see Wayne walk into the kitchen with Stan’s old Broncos sweatshirt pulled on over his jeans. Stan pretended not to give it much notice, not wanting to make a big deal. Until he had kids of his own, Wayne wouldn’t understand that he was a big deal by default, every day, all the time. Stan put the condiments on the table and dropped ice into two glasses before filling them with some flat-ish Sprite from a two liter bottle that had arrived with the pizza last time he'd had the kids over. Wayne sat at the table and yawned into his hands. 

“Hey Dad?” he said while Stan assembled the burgers at the counter. 

“Yeah?” 

“Since Evan’s not here, can you tell me what it was like?” 

“What-- what was like?” Stan thought of Kyle, but Wayne wouldn’t want to know about that. 

“The Tenorman thing,” Wayne said. “You said you’d tell me sometime.” 

“Oh, yeah.” This was another question that Stan had assumed was years away from needing an answer. He licked some ketchup off his thumb and nodded, because he had promised. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you, if you really want to know.” 

“I want to.” 

Stan set Wayne’s plate down and touched his damp hair, figuring he could get away with it. He sat down with his own plate and turned back to check the timer on the tater tots. 

“Well,” he said, not sure how he could tell this story honestly but without giving his kid nightmares. Wayne had his elbows on the table, mustard at the corner of his lips as he chewed up the first giant bite he’d taken from his burger. “I guess I should start at the beginning,” Stan said. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten to tell Wayne a story, or the last time Wayne had looked at him like this, like Stan had something big and important to say, something that nobody else would know how to tell him. “It all started when this kid, Scott Tenorman, decided to pick on a fat kid named Eric who was younger than him.” 

“Eric Cartman?”

“Yep, that’s the one.” 

Stan censored a lot of the details, but Wayne didn’t seem to mind, maybe because he didn’t censor the part about how scared he had been down there in the dark, waiting to know what Tenorman would do and thinking about how life up on earth might go on without him. Wayne mostly listened but asked questions at some points, and Stan didn’t scold him for talking with his mouth full. They finished their burgers and then ate hot tater tots right off the baking sheet. It was almost nine o’clock by the time Stan drove Wayne home, the Broncos game playing on the radio. 

“I keep telling everyone I can drive,” Stan said, his cane stuck between the driver and passenger seats. “You’re the first one who’s actually let me.” 

“Will you start teaching me soon?” Wayne asked, his face bright and hopeful when Stan looked over at him. 

“Sure, yeah,” Stan said. He was beaming, unable to hide how happy this made him; he couldn’t pretend it wasn't a big deal. “I mean, it’s still a couple of years until you can get your permit, but we can go over the basics.” 

“Yeah, the basics,” Wayne said. He was smiling, too, watching the windshield wipers brush away a soft dusting of snow. Stan still looked out at the streets of South Park with more trepidation than he once had, even though the killer that had stalked the town was gone and buried. He had once thought of this town as a wholly insulated place, a snow globe that he’d lived inside all his life and would never escape, but now it felt open to everything, good and bad. 

Dropping Wayne off and waving to Lola as she met him at the door was still a surreal experience. Stan supposed he might never get used to it, after ten years of sharing a roof with his kids every night. It was strange, too, to go back to his empty house after three nights spent bundled up with Kyle in the city. He left the lights on in the kitchen and the living room as he moved through the house, and after he'd brushed his teeth he walked back out to check the lock on the front door. When he found it bolted he felt stupid, and he snapped all the lights off on his way to bed. 

In bed, he brought the glow of his phone to his face and checked his text messages, smiling when he saw one from Kyle:

_Everything okay?_

_Yeah_ , Stan sent back, wanting to kiss the screen of his phone, wanting it to be Kyle's warm cheek. _Everything's okay here._


End file.
